Heartstone

Chapter Seventeen

WE DISMOUNTED. Fulstowe gave Feaveryear a formal smile.

'You are well, master clerk?'

He bowed. 'Thank you, Master Fulstowe.'

Fulstowe looked at Barak. 'You must be Master Shardlake's clerk?'

'I am. Jack Barak.'

'The groom will show you both your quarters. I will have your masters' panniers taken to their rooms.'

I nodded to Barak. He and Feaveryear followed the groom, other servants leading the horses. Dyrick smiled. 'You will miss your amanuensis, Master Shardlake. Well, it is time you met our hosts and their ward.'

I followed him towards the steps, where the quartet waited. I saw that near the rear wall of the enclosed gardens a butts had been set up, a mound of raised earth with a round cloth target at the centre. Behind it was what looked like a jumble of gravestones. I followed Dyrick up the steps.

Nicholas Hobbey was a thin, spare man in his forties, with thick grey hair and a narrow, severe face. He wore a blue summer doublet of fine cotton with a short robe over it. He clasped Dyrick's hand warmly. 'Vincent,' he said in a clear, melodious voice, 'it is good to see you here again.'

'And you, Nicholas.'

Hobbey turned to me. 'Master Shardlake,' he said formally, 'I hope you will accept our hospitality. I look forward to relieving the anxieties of those who sent you.' His small brown eyes assessed me closely. 'This is my wife, Mistress Abigail.'

I bowed to the woman Michael Calfhill had called mad. She was tall, thin-faced like her husband. The whitelead powder on her cheeks could not conceal the lines beneath. She wore a wide-skirted, grey silk dress with yellow puffed sleeves and a short hood lined with pearls; the hair at her brow was a faded blonde, turning grey. I bowed and rose to find her staring at me intently. She curtsied briefly, then turned to the boys beside her, took a deep, tense breath and spoke in a high voice. 'My son, David. And my husband's ward, Hugh Curteys.'

David was a little under normal height, solid and stocky. He wore a dark brown doublet over a white shirt with a long lacework collar. His black hair was close-cropped. Black tendrils also sprouted at the collar of his shirt. Reverend Broughton had said David was an ugly child and he was on the verge of becoming an ugly man; his round face heavy-featured and thick-lipped, shaved close but still with a dark shadow on his cheeks. He had protuberant blue eyes like his mother, his only resemblance to either parent. He looked at me, his expression conveying contempt.

'Master Shardlake,' he said curtly, extending a hand; it was hot, damp and, to my surprise, callused.

I turned to the boy we had travelled over sixty miles to meet. Hugh Curteys was also dressed in dark doublet and white shirt, and he too wore his hair cropped close. I remembered Mistress Calfhill's story of the time he had nits, and chased his sister round the room laughing. I was conscious of Emma's cross round my neck, where I had worn it for safe-keeping on the journey.

Hugh was a complete contrast to David. He was tall, with an athlete's build, broad-chested and narrow-waisted. He had a long chin and a strong nose above a full mouth. Apart from a couple of tiny brown moles his would have been the handsomest of faces were it not for the scars and pits of smallpox marking its lower half. The scarring on his neck was even worse. His upper face was deeply tanned, making the white scars below even more obvious. His eyes, an unusual shade of blue-green, were clear and oddly expressionless. Despite his obvious good health I sensed a sadness in him.

He took my hand. His grip was dry and firm. His hand was callused too. 'Master Shardlake,' he said in a low, husky voice, 'so you know Goodwife Calfhill.'

'Indeed.'

'I remember her. A good, fond old lady.' Still no expression in those eyes, only watchfulness.

The steward Fulstowe had come up the steps and stood beside his master, observing us carefully. I had the odd sense he was watching the family to see how they performed, like a playmaster.

'Two letters arrived for you this morning, Master Shardlake,' he said. 'They are in your room. One for your man Barak too. They were brought by a royal post rider on his way to Portsmouth, I think he had ridden through the night.' He looked at me keenly. 'One letter had the Queen's seal on it.'

'I am fortunate to have the Queen's solicitor for a friend. He arranged to have correspondence sent on to me by the post riders. And collected too, from Cosham.'

'I can arrange for a servant to take letters there for you.'

'Thank you.' I would make sure they were well sealed.

'Master Shardlake is modest,' Dyrick said. 'He sometimes gets cases from the Queen.' He looked meaningfully at Hobbey. 'As I told you in my letter.'

Hobbey said smoothly. 'Shall we go inside? My wife dislikes the sun.'

WE PASSED THROUGH what had once been the doors leading into the church. Inside was a curious smell, dust and fresh wood overlaying a faint, lingering tang of incense. The south transept had been converted into a wide staircase leading to the old conventual buildings, while the old nave had been transformed into an impressive great hall, the ancient hammerbeam roof exposed. The walls were bright with tapestries of hunting scenes. The old windows had been replaced by modern mullioned ones, and new ones had been added, making the hall well lit. A cabinet displayed bowls of Venetian glass and vases of beautifully arranged flowers. At the far end of the hall, though, the old west window remained, a huge arch with its original stained glass showing saints and disciples. Below it a large dining table was covered with a turkey cloth. An elderly woman servant was laying out tableware. A fireplace had been installed against one wall. This conversion would have taken time and much money; the tapestries alone were worth a considerable amount.

'You have done more work since I last came, Nicholas,' Dyrick said admiringly.

'Yes,' Hobbey answered in his quiet voice. 'The west window needs plain glass put in, otherwise all is done save for that wretched nuns' cemetery.'

'I saw what looked like headstones by the far wall,' I said. 'Next to the butts.'

'The locals will not pull them down for us. No matter what we offer.' He shook his head. 'Superstitious peasants.'

'Played on by that rogue Ettis,' Abigail said bitterly. I looked at her; she seemed strung tight as a bow, her clasped hands trembling slightly.

'I will get someone from Portsmouth, my dear, as soon as things are quiet again there,' Hobbey answered soothingly. 'I see you admire my tapestries, Master Shardlake.' He stepped over to the wall, Dyrick and I following. The tapestries were exceptionally fine, a series of four making up a hunting scene. The quarry was a unicorn, startled from its woodland lair in the first tapestry, chased by horsemen in the second and third, while in the last, in accordance with ancient legend, it had halted in a clearing and laid its horned head in the lap of a young virgin, who sat smiling demurely. But her allure was a trap, for in the trees around the bower archers stood with drawn bows. I studied the intricate weave and beautifully dyed colours.

'They are German,' Hobbey said proudly. 'Much of my trade was along the Rhine. I got them at a good price, they came from a merchant bankrupted in the Peasant Wars. They are my pride and joy, as the garden is my wife's.' He ran the flat of his palm almost reverently over the unicorn's head. 'You should see how those villagers look at my tapestries when they come here for the manorial court. They stare as though the figures would leap off the wall at them.' He laughed scornfully.

The boys had come close, David looking at the archers poised to shoot the unicorn. 'Hard to miss at that range,' he said dismissively. 'A deer would never let you get that close.'

I remembered how Hugh's and David's hands had felt callused. 'Do you boys practise at the butts outside?'

'Every day,' David answered proudly. 'It is our great sport, better even than hawking. The best of manly pastimes. Is that not so, Hugh?' He slapped Hugh on the shoulder, hard I thought. I noticed a suppressed anxiety in David's manner. His mother was watching him, her eyes sharp.

'It is.' Hugh looked at me with that unreadable gaze. 'I have a copy of Master Ascham's new-printed Toxophilus that he presented to the King this year. Master Hobbey gave it to me for my birthday.'

'Indeed.' The book the Queen had told me Lady Elizabeth was reading. 'I should like to see that.'

'Have you an interest in archery, sir?'

I smiled. 'An interest in books, rather. I am not built for the bow.'

'I shall be pleased to show you my copy.' For the first time Hugh's face showed some animation.

'Later, perhaps,' Hobbey said. 'Our guests have been on the road five days. Hot water waits in your rooms, sirs, let it not get cold. Then come down and join us. I have told the servants to prepare a good supper.' He snapped his fingers at the old woman. 'Ursula, show Masters Dyrick and Shardlake to their rooms.'

She led us upstairs, into a corridor through whose arched windows I saw the old cloister, set to more flowerbeds and peaceful in the lengthening shadows. Ursula opened the door to a large guest room with a canopied tester bed. A bowl of water steamed on a table beside three letters.

'Thank you,' I said.

She nodded curtly. Behind her in the doorway, Dyrick inclined his head. 'You see how well Master Curteys is?' he said.

'So it would seem. On first impression.'

Dyrick sighed, shook his head and turned to follow Ursula. I closed the door, crossed quickly to the bed and picked up the letters. One was addressed to 'Jack Barak' in a clumsy hand. I opened the other two. The first, from Warner and dated three days before, was brief. He apologized again for being unable to send one of his men to accompany us, and said the King and Queen would be leaving for Portsmouth on July 4th—yesterday, so they were already on their way. He said they hoped to arrive on the 15th, and would stay at Portchester Castle. He had set enquiries in train about Hobbey's financial history, but had nothing to report yet.

I turned eagerly to Guy's letter, written on the same day, in his small neat handwriting:

I folded the letter. Despite what he said, I had already decided to visit Rolfswood on the way home; I felt I must. I sighed and went to look out of the window. I could see the little cemetery, a jumble of stones set amidst unkempt grass. I thought, Dyrick is right, Hugh is glowing with health. And Nicholas Hobbey's tone had never varied from urbane politeness. He hardly seemed the man to have set those corner boys on me. But something was wrong here, I felt it.

A SUBSTANTIAL SUPPER was served in the great hall. Dusk was falling and candles were lit in sconces round the chamber. Hobbey sat at the head of the table, Hugh and Dyrick on one side and David and Abigail on the other. I took the remaining chair, next to Abigail. The steward stood behind Hobbey, presiding as servants brought in the food, their footsteps clicking on the worn, decorated tiles of the old church. Apart from Ursula, most were young men. I wondered how many servants the Hobbeys would keep; a dozen perhaps.

I was conscious of a wheezy, snuffling noise beside me. I looked down and saw what seemed like a bundle of fur on Abigail's lap. Then I saw two small button eyes staring up at me with friendly curiosity. It was a little spaniel, like the Queen's dog, but very fat. Abigail smiled down at it with an unexpectedly tender expression.

'Father,' David said in a disgusted tone, 'Mother has Lamkin on her lap again.'

'Abigail,' Hobbey said in his quiet even voice, 'please let Ambrose take him out. We do not want him climbing on the table again, do we?'

Abigail allowed Fulstowe to take the dog, her eyes following as he carried it from the room. She glanced at me, a flash of something like hatred in her eyes. Fulstowe returned and stood behind his master again. Ursula set down an aromatic bowl of ginger sauce. Dyrick studied the food with an anticipatory smile. Hugh stared ahead, his face expressionless.

'Let us say grace,' Hobbey said.

IT WAS A splendid meal, cold roast goose with rich sauces and fine red wine in silver jugs. Dyrick and I, both hungry, set to eagerly.

'How are things in London?' Hobbey asked. 'I hear the currency has been debased again.'

'It has. It is causing much confusion and trouble.'

'I am glad I moved to the country. How was your journey? We have had storms here, but I know they were worse in London. I worried the roads would be muddy, and full of the King's traffic coming to Portsmouth.'

'So they were,' Dyrick agreed. 'But we were lucky, thanks to Brother Shardlake. We met up with an old client of his, a petty-captain of a company of archers, who let us ride with them. A blast from his trumpeteer and everyone moved out of the way.'

I saw Hugh turn and look at me intently. 'A grateful client?' Hobbey asked with a smile. 'What did you win for him?'

'The freehold of some land.'

He nodded, as though that was what he had expected. 'And they were heading for Portsmouth?'

'Yes. Country lads from Middlesex. One wants to go to London to be a playwright.'

'A country soldier writing plays?' Hobbey gave a little scoffing laugh. 'I never heard such a thing.'

'I believe he composed the rude ditties the soldiers sang on the road,' Dyrick said. 'Saving your presence, Mistress Abigail.' Abigail smiled tightly.

'Country lads should stay at the plough,' Hobbey said firmly.

'Except when they are called to defend us all?' Hugh asked quietly.

'Yes. When they are full grown.' Hobbey's look at his ward was suddenly severe.

Dyrick said, 'More men are marching south. And the King and Queen are coming to Portsmouth to review the ships, I hear.'

Hugh turned to me. 'The soldiers were archers, sir?'

'Yes, Master Curteys. Their skill with a bow had to be seen to be believed.'

'You should see Hugh and I practising at the butts,' David said, leaning across his mother. 'I am the stronger,' he added proudly.

'But I am the one who hits the mark,' Hugh countered quietly.

'I was a fine archer in my youth,' Dyrick said complacently. 'Now I am teaching my son. Though I thank God he is only ten, too young to be called up.'

'Master Shardlake will not want to see you boys practising that dangerous sport,' Abigail said. 'One of the servants will end with an arrow through his body one of these days.'

Hugh turned cold eyes on her. 'Our only risk of being shot, good mistress, is if the French land. They say they have over two hundred ships.'

Hobbey shook his head. 'All these rumours. A hundred, two hundred. What a tumult. Three thousand men have been levied in north Hampshire and sent to Portsmouth. Hoyland village, like all the coastal villages, is exempt from recruitment, with the men kept in the militia ready to march to the coast when the beacons are lit.'

'They are recruiting heavily in London,' Dyrick said.

'I accompanied our local magistrate on a review of the village men. For all that some of them are ruffians, they are stout fellows who will make good fighting men.' Hobbey's face took on a preening expression. 'As lord of the manor I have had to supply them with harness. Fortunately the nuns had a store of old pikes and jacks, even a few rusty helmets, to meet the manor's military obligations.'

There was silence round the table for a moment. I thought of Leacon's men repairing the musty old jacks they would have to fight in. Hobbey looked at me, eyes glinting sharp in the candlelight. 'I believe you are personally acquainted with the Queen, Master Shardlake.'

'I have that privilege,' I answered carefully. 'I knew her majesty when she was still Lady Latimer.'

Hobbey spread his hands, smiling coldly. 'I, alas, have the patronage of no high personages. I have risen only to be a country gentleman.'

'All credit to you for that, sir,' Dyrick said. 'And for your fine house.'

'These smaller religious houses can be turned to fine residences. The only disadvantage is that this one was also used as Hoyland parish church, so we have to go to the next parish on Sundays.'

'With all the oafs from the village,' Abigail added tartly.

'And our status means we need to go each Sunday,' Hobbey added in a weary tone. Clearly, I thought, this is no religious family.

'How many nuns were here, Nicholas?' Dyrick asked.

'Only five. This was a subsidiary house of Wherwell Abbey, in the west of the county. I have a picture of the last abbess but one in my study, I will show you tomorrow.'

'Her face all wrapped up so tight in her wimple,' Abigail said with a shudder.

'They used to send disobedient nuns here,' David said. 'Ones that had had monks' hands at those wimples, and elsewhere—'

'David, fie, for shame,' his father said. But he spoke mildly, giving his son an indulgent look.

Hugh said quietly, 'Some nights, sitting here, I seem to hear faint echoes of their prayers and psalms. Just as we still faintly smell the incense.'

'They deserve no sympathy,' Hobbey said flatly. 'They lived as parasites on the rents from their woodland.' I thought, as you do now.

'They would be able to make fine profits today,' Dyrick said. 'The price wood is fetching.'

'Yes. This is the time to sell, while the war is on.'

'There will be good profits from your land and Master Hugh's too,' I observed.

Dyrick raised his eyebrows at me. 'Master Hobbey is laying up a fine store of money for Hugh.'

'You are welcome to see my accounts,' Hobbey said.

'Thank you,' I answered neutrally, knowing those could be doctored.

'For when I am twenty-one, a grown man,' Hugh said quietly, then laughed, a bitter little sound. Abigail sighed deeply. I thought, that woman is wound so tight she could explode.

Hobbey passed the wine around. Dyrick placed his hand over his cup. 'I will have no more, thank you,' he said. 'I prefer to keep my mind sharp.' He looked at me meaningfully.

'What happened to the nuns when they left?' I asked.

'They got good pensions.'

'Old Ursula was one of the nuns' servants,' Abigail said. 'She wishes they were back, you can see it in her.'

'We needed someone who knew the place,' Hobbey said, an impatient note entering his voice.

'She looks at me insolently. And those other servants, they're all from the village. They hate us, they'll murder us in our beds one night.'

'Oh, Abigail,' Hobbey said, 'these fears and fantasies of yours.'

The servants came in again, carrying trays of custards and comfits. As we ate I noticed something odd about the light. The candles seemed to be flickering and dimming. Then I realized that huge numbers of moths were flittering round them, as they had been at the campfire the night before. They caught their poor wings in the flames and fell and died, more moths at once taking their place. 'Some fool servant has left a window open,' Abigail said.

Hobbey looked at the candles curiously. 'I have never seen so many moths as this summer. It must be to do with the strange weather we had in June.'

Dyrick looked at Hobbey, then me. 'Well, Master Hobbey, a delightful meal. But perhaps now we should discuss the business that brought us here.'

'Yes,' Hobbey agreed. 'Abigail, boys, perhaps you could leave us.'

'Should not Hugh stay?' I asked.

'No,' Dyrick answered firmly. 'He is a boy and this is men's business. You will have ample chance to talk to him tomorrow.'

I looked at Hugh. His face was impassive as he rose and accompanied Abigail and David from the hall. As the door closed I heard Abigail calling out for Lamkin. Fulstowe remained where he was behind his master, still as a soldier on guard. 'I would like Ambrose to stay,' Hobbey said. 'He manages my business down here.'

'Certainly,' I agreed.

Hobbey leaned back in his chair. 'Well, Master Shardlake. This is a strange business. Upsetting for my family. My wife has had delicate health ever since poor Emma died.'

'I am sorry.'

'She always wanted a daughter.' But Hugh, I thought, has no affection for her with his coldly formal manner, addressing her as 'Mistress'. And David had treated his mother like dirt.

'And just now she is anxious about the hunt,' Hobbey added in a lighter tone. 'We are having a hunt on my land, Master Shardlake. It will be an occasion, the first in my new deer park.' Pride had entered his quiet voice, as when he showed me the tapestries. 'It was to be this week but we have postponed it to next Monday to allow this business to be dealt with.' He shook his head. 'And all because Michael Calfhill chose to burst in on us out of the blue last spring.'

'May I ask what happened then? Informally, for now?'

Hobbey looked at Dyrick, who nodded. 'It is simply told,' Hobbey said. 'One afternoon in April the boys were at the butts—they think of nothing but their bows since this war began. I was in my study when a servant ran in and said a strange man was outside, shouting at Hugh. I called for Ambrose and we went out. I did not recognize Calfhill at first, it was five years since he worked for me. He was raving, shouting at Hugh that he must come away with him. He said he loved him better than anyone else in the world.' He inclined his head, looking at me meaningfully, then turned to Fulstowe. 'It was an extraordinary scene, was it not, Ambrose?'

Fulstowe nodded gravely. 'Master David was there as well, he looked terrified.'

'What was Hugh's reaction, Master Hobbey?'

'He was afraid. Both boys said later that Calfhill just appeared from the old nuns' cemetery.'

'He must have been hiding there,' Fulstowe added. 'It is very overgrown.'

'So you see,' Dyrick said, 'Michael Calfhill was a pervert. Probably thoughts of what he would like to do with Hugh had been roiling in his mind for years and driven him mad.' He reached across the table and slapped his hand down on a moth which had fallen to the table and fluttered there, desperately beating its burned wings. He wiped the mess on a napkin. 'Forgive me, Nicholas, but it was annoying me. Now, Brother Shardlake. How do you wish to proceed with the depositions?'

I addressed Hobbey. 'I would like to talk to Hugh, of course, and yourself and your wife.'

Hobbey nodded. 'So long as Master Dyrick is present at all the interviews.'

'And Master David.'

'No,' Dyrick said firmly. 'He is a minor. Hugh is too, but the court will wish to see his evidence despite his youth. David is a different matter.'

I went on, 'And Fulstowe, and such servants as have dealings with the boys.'

'God's death,' Dyrick said. 'We will be here till the leaves fall.'

'Fulstowe certainly.' Hobbey leaned forward, speaking in the same quiet, even tone but with a steely note now. 'But my servants know the boys only as masters.'

'The Court of Wards would not permit random interrogation of servants,' Dyrick said firmly, 'unless they had particular knowledge. It undermines the relationship between master and servant.'

Dyrick was right; I had been testing the water. I could not force the servants, or David, to give depositions unless I believed they had particular evidence. I would, though, have liked to talk to David; there was an uneasiness under his spoiled foolishness. And Abigail had spoken of the servants murdering them in their beds, while Dyrick had told me Hobbey wished to enclose the village lands. If the servants were village folk, that might explain Abigail's fear. It might also mean some would be willing to talk to me.

'We will leave David and the servants,' I said, 'for now.'

'For good and all,' Dyrick said emphatically.

'Then there is the feodary,' I added. 'Sir Quintin Priddis.'

Hobbey nodded. 'I have written to him and had a letter back today. At the moment he is in Christchurch, but he is coming to Portsmouth on Friday. I would suggest we go to see him there.'

'I would prefer to meet him here,' I answered. 'Over the next couple of days I would like to see Hugh's woodlands, then I hoped Sir Quintin and I could ride Hugh's lands together. So that I might ask him about the stretches of woodland which have been cut, how much each part fetched.'

'I doubt he would be able to do that,' Hobbey replied. 'Sir Quintin Priddis is an old man, infirm of body though not of mind. And those woods are hard going. If lands have to be ridden his son, Edward, usually does that. And I do not know whether Edward Priddis is with him.'

Dyrick nodded agreement. 'I think the court would expect you to accommodate Master Hobbey where possible, Brother Shardlake. Can you not see Sir Quintin in Portsmouth? If his son is with him, perhaps he could ride back with us if you insist on riding Hugh's lands.'

I considered. The King's party would not be arriving for ten days. Portsmouth was still safe for me. 'Very well. Provided, Master Hobbey, that you write to him making clear I may request him or his son to come here afterwards.'

Hobbey looked at me seriously. 'I wish only to cooperate, Master Shardlake, to meet all reasonable demands.' He emphasized the 'reasonable'. 'I will have my books of account sent up to your room,' he added.

'Thank you.' I rose. 'Then until tomorrow, sir. Fulstowe, I would like to take this letter to Barak. His wife has a baby due soon. Perhaps you would tell me where his quarters are.'

The steward stepped forward. 'Certainly. He is in one of the old outhouses. I will take you there.'

'I will not trouble you. I can walk round.'

'It is dark out there now,' Hobbey said.

'No matter. I was brought up in the country.'

WE LEFT THE great hall. Master Hobbey bade us goodnight and climbed the stairs; Dyrick gave me a curt nod and said, 'Till tomorrow.' I followed Fulstowe outside. He stood on the steps, looking up at the stars.

'A fine night, sir,' he observed, smiling deferentially. I thought, this is a proper steward, loyal to his master, not an oaf like Coldiron. But I did not trust him an inch.

'Indeed. Let us hope this better weather continues.'

Fulstowe indicated a row of substantial buildings against the side wall of the enclosure. 'Your servant is in the fourth building down. You are sure you would not like me to accompany you?'

'No, thank you. I will see you tomorrow.'

He bowed. 'Then goodnight, sir. I will leave the door open a little for you.'

I walked down the steps. I took a deep breath, relieved to be away from them all. I breathed in the country scents, grass and the rich fragrance of flowers from Abigail's garden. I had still not got used to the silence after those days on the road.

There was a footstep behind me, I was sure. I looked round. The only light came from the moon, and a few candles shimmering at the priory windows. I could see nobody, but the lawn was dotted with trees behind which someone could hide. Fear came on me again, the fear that had been with me since the corner boys' attack, and I realized how much I missed the security of riding with Leacon's company. I hurried on, turning back every few seconds to signal to anyone looking that they had been heard. I counted along the squat, functional outhouses, knocking heavily on the door of the fourth. It opened and Barak looked out, dressed in his shirt.

'It's you. God's teeth, I thought someone was trying to batter the door down. Come in.'

I followed him inside. A mean little room with a truckle bed in the corner, lit by a cheap, smoky, tallow candle. I took out the letter.

'News from Tamasin?' he said, his face suddenly bright.

'I have had a letter from Guy, he says she continues well.'

Barak tore open the letter and read it. He smiled broadly. 'Yes, all is well. Tammy says she is doing everything Jane Marris tells her. I'm not sure I believe her, though.'

'Is not the letter written in Guy's hand?' I asked curioulsy.

Barak flushed, then looked at me. 'Tamasin can barely write, did you not know?'

'No.' I was embarrassed. 'I am sorry, I thought—'

'Tamasin is a woman of low birth, she was taught little more than to sign her own name.' His tone was sharp, I had annoyed him. 'Did Guy tell you how Ellen was?'

'Guy had not visited her when he wrote.' He grunted. 'No Feaveryear for company?' I asked in an effort to lighten the atmosphere.

'No, thank heaven. He's next door. I heard him at his prayers through the wall a while ago.'

'Well, we cannot grudge him his belief.'

'I grudge his deference to that Dyrick. He thinks the sun shines out of his arse.'

'Yes. 'Tis well said that a faithful servant shall become a perpetual ass.'

Barak looked at me closely. 'Are you all right? You seemed scared when you came in.'

'I thought I heard someone following me. I was probably mistaken.' I laughed uneasily. 'No corner boys here.'

'We still don't know who set them on you. Do you think it could have been Hobbey?'

'I don't know. He is a hard man for all his civility.' I shook my head. 'But there was no time for him to instruct anyone.'

'What of Hugh Curteys? How does he seem?'

'Well. I have just dined with the family. I think he would like to go and join the army.'

Barak raised his eyebrows. 'Rather him than me. When do you think we will get home?'

'We have to go to Portsmouth on Friday to see Priddis, the feodary. Then we shall see.'

'Friday? Shit, I thought we would be on the road home by then.'

'I know. Listen, I want you to help me take the depositions tomorrow, give me your view of these people. And try to make friends with the servants, see what they may have to tell. Quietly—you know how.'

'That might not be easy. Fulstowe told me not to go to the house unless I was asked for. Haughty fellow. I took a walk by myself in the grounds, greeted a couple of gardeners but only got a surly nod. Hampshire hogs.'

I was silent a moment. Then I said, 'That family . . .'

'What?'

'They try to hide it, but it breaks through. They are angry and frightened, I think. All of them.'

'What of?'

I took a long breath. 'Of me. But I think also of each other.'

Chapter Eighteen

ON RETURNING TO the house I spent two hours going over Hobbey's accounts. He had given me the books dating back to 1539, the year they had all moved to Hoyland. Everything was clearly recorded in a neat hand that I guessed was Fulstowe's. Much woodland had been cut down in the last six years, and the payments had accumulated into a considerable sum. Hugh's land was accounted for separately, and the amount of different types of wood—oak, beech and elm and the prices each had fetched—neatly entered. But I knew well enough that even accounts as clearly set out as these could be full of false entries. I recalled the old saying that there was good fishing in puddled waters. I sat awhile, thinking back to the meal, the terrible tension round the table. There was something very wrong here, I sensed, more than profiteering from a ward's lands.

At last I went to bed and slept deeply. Just before I woke I dreamed of Joan, welcoming me home on a cold dark night, saying I had been away too long. I heaved myself out of bed, then sat thinking. It struck me that if we were not travelling to Portsmouth until Friday, then instead of visiting Rolfswood on the way home, finding some excuse to send Barak on, I should have the opportunity to ride to Sussex while we were here. I estimated the journey at perhaps fifteen miles; I would have to stay overnight to rest the horse.

I heard youthful shouts outside. I opened the window and looked out. Some distance away—I guessed the regulation two hundred and twenty yards—Hugh and David stood shooting arrows at the butts. I watched Hugh loose an arrow. It sped through the air and landed smack in the centre of the target. He seemed as fast and accurate as Leacon's men.

I would have benefited from a session of the morning exercises Guy had given me for my back, but there was much to be done. So I dressed in my serjeant's robe and went downstairs. It felt uncomfortable; it was another hot, sticky morning.

The great hall was empty, but I heard Barak's voice somewhere and followed it to a large kitchen, where he and Feaveryear sat at a table eating bread and cheese, their tones more amicable than I had heard before. The old woman Ursula stood at the big range, sweat on her thin face. Abigail Hobbey's lapdog, Lamkin, stood by Feaveryear's feet, gobbling at a lump of cheese. It looked up as I entered, wagging its feathery tail as though to say, see what a lucky fellow I am.

'Tamasin has a good woman to care for her,' Barak was saying to Feaveryear, 'but I cannot help worrying. I imagine her out in her garden, weeding when she should be sitting indoors.'

'I did not know you were married. I took you for a roistering fellow.'

'That's all done now—ah, good morning,' he said as I came in. Feaveryear stood, bowing briefly.

'You've let me sleep in,' I said, joining them at table.

'They only woke me half an hour ago,' Barak answered cheerfully. 'And the old need their sleep.'

'Less of the old, churl.' Feaveryear looked shocked at our familiarity.

From the kitchen we had a better view through an open window of the boys practising. David was shooting now, leaning back then bending his strong square body forward and loosing his arrow. He too hit the target, though off-centre.

'This is a beautiful place,' Feaveryear said. 'I have never seen the country before.'

'Never left London?' I asked.

'This is my first journey. I wanted to see it. The smells are so different, so clean.'

'Ay,' Barak agreed. 'No rotten meat or sewage stink.'

'And so quiet. Hard to think that only a few miles away the army is gathering at Portsmouth.'

'Yes,' I agreed, 'it is.'

'Master Hobbey has made a marvellous house. And a good thing this estate is no longer used to support those nuns mumbling prayers to idolatrous statues,' Feaveryear added sententiously. The old woman turned and gave him a vicious look.

'Those lads know what they're doing,' Barak said, looking through the window at Hugh and David. David shot again, and I followed the arcing trajectory of the arrow to the target. 'There,' I heard him shout, 'I win! Sixpence you owe me!'

'No!' Hugh called back. 'I shot nearer the centre!'

Feaveryear was looking at the boys too, his face sad. 'Do you pull the bow at all?' I asked him.

'No, sir. God gave me but little strength. I envy those strong lads.'

'A cosy scene,' a sneering voice said. We turned to find Dyrick in the doorway, Hobbey beside him. Dyrick too had donned his lawyer's robe.

'Who has been feeding that dog?' Hobbey asked sharply.

'Me, sir,' Feaveryear answered nervously. 'He is such a merry little fellow.'

'You will be no merry fellow if my wife finds out. Only she feeds him—she thinks he has a delicate stomach. Lamkin, go find Mistress.' The dog turned and waddled obediently out of the kitchen. Hobbey turned to Ursula. 'You should not have allowed him to feed Lamkin,' he snapped.

'I am sorry sir. I could not see through the steam.'

'I think you saw well enough. Be careful, goodwife.' Hobbey turned to me, his voice smooth again. 'Well, Brother Shardlake, perhaps you could say how you wish to proceed. As you see, Hugh is available now.'

I had decided to interview the others before Hugh, to try and get some sense of this strange family. 'I thought we might take your deposition first, sir. Then Fulstowe's and your wife's.'

Hobbey looked at Dyrick. 'Is that agreeable to you?'

Dyrick inclined his head. 'Very well.'

'Then I will tell the boys they may go hawking this morning; they asked if they might.' Hobbey took a deep breath. 'Let us begin. We can use my study.'

'I wish Barak to be with me, to take notes,' I said.

'I have brought some paper and a quill, Master Hobbey,' Barak said cheerfully. 'If you could let me have some ink.'

'We do not need clerks,' Dyrick snapped.

'Clerks usually attend when taking depositions, do they not?' I looked at him levelly. 'It makes for greater accuracy.'

'If we must,' Dyrick said with a sigh. 'Come, Feaveryear,' he continued, 'if Barak is attending you must too. More unnecessary costs for Master Shardlake's client to pay.'

HOBBEY'S STUDY was a large ground-floor room, lavishly decorated. There was a wide desk with many drawers, pigeonholes on the wall above, and several beautifully decorated wooden chests. Chairs had been set in a semicircle facing the window. On one wall I saw a portrait of a Benedictine nun, her neck and head swathed in starched white folds and a black veil.

'The second to last abbess of Wherwell,' Hobbey said.

'An interesting face,' I replied. 'Watchful yet contemplative.'

'You appreciate painting, Master Shardlake.' His face relaxed and he gave me an oddly shy smile.

'We should begin, sir,' Dyrick said a little sharply. He took two inkpots from the desk, passing them to Barak and Feaveryear.

Hobbey invited us to sit and took a chair by his desk. There was a large hourglass on it, a beautiful greenstone one with clear glass, full of white sand. He turned it so the sand began to fall.

'To begin, sir,' I said. 'Would you tell me a little of your background? You said last night you had lived in Germany?'

Hobbey glanced at his hourglass, then folded his slim, well-manicured hands in his lap. 'As a boy I got a job as a messenger, running between the wool merchants and the German traders at the Steelyard. Then I went to Germany to learn the trade myself, came back and in time became a member of the Mercers' Company.'

'When did you meet the Curteys family?'

'It was seven years past,' Hobbey continued in the same quiet, even tone. 'The monasteries were going down like bowling pins, everyone was looking for bargains at the Court of Augmentations. And I wanted to retire from my business.'

'An early retirement, was it not?' I would not ask whether he had been in debt; not yet.

'I had been in the trade since I was ten, I was bored with it. I learned the lands of this priory were for sale and came down here. I met John Curteys at a local inn, God rest him. He was interested in buying some of the priory woodland. I could not afford to buy it all as well as the nunnery, so we agreed he would take the larger portion. We were both wool merchants and we became friends. But then John and his wife died suddenly, as you will know.'

'And you applied for Hugh and Emma's wardship.'

Hobbey spread his hands. 'That is no mystery. I knew the children. And as the lands they inherited marched with mine it made commercial sense for everyone for Hoyland to be managed as a unit. I paid a good price, and every penny went into Hugh and Emma's account at Wards.'

I looked at Dyrick, who was nodding slowly. I guessed they had rehearsed all this last night. I had been in practice long enough to tell.

'So taking the children's wardship was a commercial venture?'

'Certainly not.' Hobbey looked angry for a moment. 'I felt sorry for them, left orphaned with no one to care for them. Who better to look after them than Abigail and I? We had always wanted more children, but after David was born we had two babies who died.' A shadow crossed his face. 'And Hugh and Emma had no other relatives, save an ancient aunt in the north whom John and Ruth's vicar wished to involve. But that proved rather difficult,' he added scornfully, 'as she turned out to be dead.' I thought, that is the tone Reverend Broughton heard when he protested. And Abigail shrieking, which I could imagine.

I paused a moment to let Barak catch up. His and Feaveryear's pens scratched away.

'To turn to Michael Calfhill,' I continued, 'you kept him as tutor. He had been with the children some years then. Yet when you moved to Hampshire you dismissed him. Why was that?'

Hobbey leaned forward and made a steeple of his hands. 'First of all, sir, the children had no real attachment to Calfhill. After their parents died they withdrew into each other's company. And within the year Emma, too, was dead.' He gave a sigh which seemed full of genuine emotion. 'And when we moved, yes, I dismissed Michael Calfhill because Hugh was now alone, and I feared Michael's influence was becoming unhealthy. Frankly I feared what paths he might lead the boy down. Impropriety,' he added slowly.

'What evidence did you have for that?'

'Remember, Brother Shardlake,' Dyrick said, 'Master Hobbey's answer could be read out in court, in front of Michael Calfhill's mother.'

'I know.' I looked fixedly at Hobbey; Dyrick would not blackmail me thus.

'It was a matter of looks and gestures. Once I saw him touch Hugh's bottom.'

'I see. Speaking of impropriety, Michael told his mother David said something improper to Emma, and Hugh fought him over it.'

'I believe Hugh once objected to something David said. My son—well, he has no good control of his tongue. They had a boyish tussle. But David and Hugh are fast friends now.'

'Did you hope David might marry Emma? If that happened Emma would have brought her portion of her lands to her husband.'

'Of course we considered that, but it would have been up to the children.'

'Did you find another tutor for Hugh and David?'

'We had a succession of tutors till last year.' He smiled wryly. 'They all had to be good archers. Hugh had begun his craze for the bow by then, and David followed.'

'A succession? How many?'

'Four, I think.'

'In five years? That seems a great many.'

'They were not always satisfactory. And many tutors see teaching as a stopgap, rather than a career.'

'Michael Calfhill did not.'

'He might have had his reasons for that,' Dyrick said, real venom in his tone.

'And David is not an easy boy to teach.' Again that sadness in Hobbey's face. 'The last man was good, but he left us to travel, visit the continent. That was before this war began.'

'Might I have their names?' I asked.

'If you wish. Though I do not know where they would be now.'

'Coming to the present, it is surely past time for the boys to consider university or a profession.'

'I want David here, to learn about the estate. As for Hugh, he has the wit for a scholar and loves book learning. But he has a boyish fancy to go to the war. So I am keeping him here till it ends. Does that not sound a reasonable course, Master Shardlake?'

'I think you will agree it is in Hugh's interest,' Dyrick interjected.

'Perhaps.' I paused. 'Master Hobbey, you gave an account at dinner last night of Michael Calfhill's reappearance last Easter. Could you tell me again what happened, for the record this time?'

Hobbey repeated the story of Michael's appearance in the old churchyard, his telling Hugh that he loved him more than anyone. I had hoped Hobbey might slip, say something inconsistent with what he had said last night. But either he spoke true, or he had been well rehearsed by Dyrick.

'How far must we press this unsavoury episode?' Dyrick asked when Hobbey had finished.

'One more thing, Master Hobbey. You have been selling off wood from the land which is part of Hugh's patrimony.'

Hobbey spread his hands. 'I would be a poor custodian of his interests if I did otherwise. Between the need for timber for ships and the demand for charcoal for the Sussex ironworks the price has never been so high.' Mention of the Sussex ironworks again, I thought. 'I am having part of my own woods felled. There is little other profit to be made here. The rents from Hoyland village and a few cottagers in the woods bring in less than seventy pounds a year, which becomes worth less and less with this great rise in prices. You have seen my accounts.'

'Indeed. And I would like to take a ride through the woodland Hugh owns, before we meet Sir Quintin Priddis on Friday.'

'Please do. But it is a large area, several miles deep in parts. Men are at work on the outer fringes now, felling trees, but further in it is old, wild growth, not easily penetrated.'

Dyrick laughed. 'Do not get lost in there, Brother, or Mistress Calfhill will have to find another lawyer.'

'I won't.' I made my voice as smooth as Hobbey's. 'And thank you, sir. I think that will be all, for now.'

Dyrick looked up sharply. 'For now? You are not allowed innumerable depositions.'

'I will only ask if something new arises.' I smiled. 'And now, if I may, I will see the steward, Fulstowe.'

'Certainly. He is with my hounds, supervising their feeding.' Hobbey glanced at the hourglass, where the sand was still falling.

'I will go and find him,' I said. 'I would like a little breath of air. Barak, come with me. And I think I will ride out and see Hugh's woodlands tomorrow.'

WE WALKED OUT into the fresh morning. A peacock strutted on the lawn, bright feathers glistening in the sun. As we approached, it uttered its mournful cry and stalked away. We followed the sound of barking to the outhouses, and I noted again the many hiding places behind the trees dotting the lawn.

'What did you think of Hobbey?' I asked.

'No fool. But I don't trust him: his story was too smoothly told.'

'I agree. But Hugh Curteys is clearly not mistreated.'

'They intended to marry David to Emma.'

'That is the way of wardship. But there is something hidden here, I am sure of it.' I frowned. 'I was thinking just now of the corner boys. If there is some roguery going on over selling the woodland, and either Sir Quintin Priddis or his son were in London, they would probably be in and out of the Court of Wards all the time. They might have learned of my involvement in this case.'

'And feared corrupt dealing being exposed, and so tried to frighten you off?'

'They would not then know I had the Queen behind me. Though Hobbey will have told them since, in his letter.' I smiled. 'I look forward to this meeting on Friday.' I took a deep breath, and added, 'Before that, given time, I think I may ride out to Rolfswood, see what I might find. Alone.'

'You should not go at all. And certainly not alone.'

'It will do me good to have a night away from here.' I was not going to tell Barak what I had heard of two deaths at the foundry. 'And I want you here, finding out all you can. That servant Ursula, she at least has no love for the Hobbeys. You could try and talk to her.'

He put his head to one side. 'Are you hiding something about Ellen?' he asked shrewdly.

'God's death, Jack,' I snapped, reddening. 'Leave it alone. It is for me to judge what to do. Now, later this morning I am going to reply to Warner. Do you want to write a letter to Tamasin for the post rider to collect?'

'Of course.'

'Then let us get our work done.' I strode on towards the continuing sound of barking, which came from a building near the stables. I looked through an open door into a kennels where a dozen black-and-white hunting dogs stood on thick straw, tethered to the walls by long iron chains. Also chained up were two of the largest greyhounds I had ever seen, their lean bodies a mass of muscle. A man was feeding the hunting dogs chunks of meat from a pail, watched keenly by Fulstowe. The steward looked round, surprised to see me, then bowed.

I nodded at the greyhounds. 'Those are big dogs.'

'They are Hugh and David's greyhounds, Ajax and Apollo. The boys will be here to collect them shortly. Master Avery, they are going hunting. Do not feed them.' He turned back to me. 'On the hunt the other dogs will be sent after the does.'

'This hunt of your master's, I gather it is the first here?'

Fulstowe nodded. 'It is. We have been keeping the hounds hungry, to get them keen for the scent of meat. That is Master Avery, whom we have hired as our Master of Hunt.'

The young man stood up and bowed. He was as thin and sinewy as the dogs, with a sharp intelligent face, his leather apron spattered with blood from the meat.

'Master Shardlake is here on legal business,' Fulstowe said.

'I heard.' Avery looked at me keenly.

'Avery is working with our forester,' Fulstowe said. He seemed to have decided to play the bluff steward. 'They have found a large stag in our park.'

'We have, sir,' Avery agreed. 'A fine beast. I look forward to next Monday.'

'The boys must be anticipating the hunt too,' I said.

'They are,' Avery agreed. 'They have come tracking deer with me. But as I said, Master Fulstowe, I would rather Master David did not come again. He makes too much noise. Though Master Hugh is a born tracker, silent as a fox. He has the makings of a fine huntsman.' He smiled. 'You should ask him to show you his heartstone.'

I stared. 'His what?'

'The piece of bone a deer has next to its heart,' Fulstowe explained. 'Master Hugh went on a neighbour's hunt last year and brought a hart down with his arrow.'

Avery smiled. 'Do you not know the old custom, sir, for the heartstone to be given to the lord who brings down the deer?'

'I fear I am a townsman.'

'It is said to have great healing properties.'

'Hugh wears it in a little bag round his neck,' Fulstowe said. His nose crinkled a little. I thought of Emma's cross round my own neck. I took a deep breath.

'Master Fulstowe,' I said. 'We would like to take your deposition now.'

'Very well.' He set his lips tight.

THE STEWARD said not a word more as we walked back to the house. As we neared the stables, David and Hugh passed us on horseback. Each wore a leather glove on which a hooded goshawk stood balanced. The sun emphasized the scars on Hugh's face, and I looked away. The boys looked curiously at my serjeant's robes, and David gave a little scoffing laugh. Hugh doffed his cap as they passed, riding away to the gate.

We entered Hobbey's study. Fulstowe's face showed relief as he saw Dyrick. Hobbey had left. 'Good morning, master steward,' Dyrick said cheerfully. 'Do not worry, I will make sure Brother Shardlake keeps to the point.' I saw the hourglass had been turned over again; the sand was just beginning to fall. Fulstowe sat, looking at me as steadily as his master had.

'Well, Fulstowe,' I began in a light tone, 'tell me how you became Master Hobbey's steward.'

'I was steward at his house in London. Before Master Hobbey came here.'

'To be a country gentleman.'

'There is no more honourable calling in England.' A touch of truculence entered Fulstowe's voice.

'You will remember when Hugh and his sister came to your master's London house six years ago. And Master Calfhill.'

'I do. My master and mistress treated those poor children as their own.'

Clearly there was no question of shaking Fulstowe's loyalty. I could not catch him out either. I questioned him for twenty minutes, and his recollections echoed those of his master. He repeated that Hugh and Emma were devoted to each other, excluding all others. He recollected little of Michael Calfhill, saying Michael held himself aloof from the rest of the household. Only once did his coolness slip, and that was when I asked about the smallpox. 'It took all three children at once,' he said. 'They must have been out together and caught it from the same person, there was much of it in London that year.' His voice wavered momentarily. 'I remember Mistress Abigail saying all the children had headaches, and felt so tired they could scarcely move. I knew what that meant.'

'Did you help care for them?'

'I carried water and clean bedclothes upstairs. The other servants were too frightened to help. The physician said they should be wrapped in red cloth to bring out the bad humours. I remember I had a job finding red cloth in London then, everyone was after it.'

'I understand Mistress Hobbey insisted on caring for David herself?'

'Yes, though she visited Hugh and Emma constantly. My mistress has never been the same since Emma died.'

'And afterwards Michael was dismissed from the household.'

'My master did not want him near Hugh any more,' Fulstowe answered. 'You must ask him why.' He inclined his head meaningfully.

'How much do you have to do with Hugh now?'

'Most of my dealings are with Master David. I am trying to teach him the running of the estate accounts.' His tone indicated he had a thankless task. 'But I look after both their wardrobes.'

'I see. What about Hugh's lands?'

'He shows little interest in them, says he will sell all when he reaches his majority. Just now he wants to join the army.'

'So you have relatively little to do with Hugh.'

'We all live in the same house. One thing I always do for both boys, since they were fourteen, is shave them. Every few days, and cut their hair too, for that is the fashion with archers. My father was a barber. Master Hugh will go to no barber for fear of being cut, given what his face and neck are like.'

'It must be a very different life for you here, Fulstowe. You are a Londoner, I think, by your voice.'

'It has taken time for us to be accepted down here. Most of the local people did not approve of the Dissolution. And the villagers suffer no master lightly.'

'Different work too. You are responsible for managing the whole estate?'

'I am. Under my master. But all trades are the same, blessed is the penny that gains two. That is my master's principle, and mine.'

'That I can believe.' I smiled. 'Well, that is all, I think. For now,' I added once again.

ABIGAIL, Dyrick told me, was still ill with a sick headache; they came on her often and sometimes lasted all day. In my room I changed into lighter clothes, then wrote a reply to Warner, asking him to let me know as soon as he had news of Hobbey's affairs. I also mentioned that I had seen Richard Rich on the journey south. Then I ate lunch with Dyrick, who spent the meal telling me how honest Hobbey and Fulstowe had shown themselves. The boys, he said, would not be back till late afternoon. I left the house, taking my copy of the estate plan which I had brought, and made my way round to Barak's quarters. He gave me a letter he had just written to Tamasin.

'What say you we take a look at Hoyland village?' I asked.

'Dyrick won't like that. He'll think you're suborning the villagers against their master.' His tone was curt; he was still annoyed with me for not taking him to Rolfswood.

'To the devil with Dyrick. Come on.'

'All right. Feaveryear has just left me. He was going over our notes of the depositions, trying to change things here and there. I wouldn't be surprised if his master told him to make difficulties for the sake of it.'

'Then you need some air.'

As we walked round to the gates I glanced over at Abigail's garden, where a servant knelt weeding, noting how much effort she had made in choosing the pretty combinations of flowers. I also noticed the flower beds were designed to form a large H, for Hobbey.

We passed through the gates and followed a dusty path. To one side was a meadow where sheep and a few cattle grazed; I saw the familiar raised shape of a butts there, and wondered how Leacon and the soldiers were faring in Portsmouth. On the other side of the road dense woodland began.

'Whose woods are those?' Barak asked.

I consulted the plan. 'Hobbey's. And that meadow belongs to the village. What did you think of Fulstowe's testimony, by the way?'

'Rehearsed, like his master's.'

'I agree. I wonder if that was why they let us sleep in this morning, to give Dyrick more time to brief them. Well, I have left the door open, to come back with more questions. Ones they can't rehearse.'

We had now passed into a cultivated area, fields divided into wide ploughed strips where men and women and children were busy working. I thought of my own ancestors, generation upon generation of men and women who had spent their lives in hard labour in the fields. Some of the villagers looked up at us. 'Hard work this hot day,' Barak called out cheerfully. They lowered their heads without replying.

We arrived at Hoyland village. Perhaps twenty-five thatched houses straggled along the street. Many were small, little more than one-storey wattle and daub cottages where both people and animals would sleep. A few, though, were larger, with a second storey, and there were a couple of good timber-framed dwellings. Old people and children were working in some of the vegetable patches out front. Again they gave us cold stares, and at one house three children ran inside at our approach.

We had reached the centre of the village. The door of a large building was open, revealing a smith working at his forge, hammering something on his anvil. Coals in the furnace glowed richly red, shimmering in a heat haze. I thought of young Tom Llewellyn.

'The welcoming party's coming,' Barak said quietly.

Three men were walking up the street towards us, all powerfully built, their expressions hostile. Two wore coarse smocks, but the third had a leather jerkin and good woollen hose. He was in his thirties, with a hard, square face, brown hair and keen blue eyes. He stopped a few feet away.

'What's your business, strangers?' he asked in a broad Hampshire burr.

'We are guests at Hoyland Priory,' I answered mildly. 'Out for a walk.'

'Listen to him, Master Ettis,' another said. 'I told you.'

Ettis stepped forward. 'Not too close, fellow,' Barak warned, placing a hand on his dagger.

'Are you the lawyers?' Ettis asked bluntly.

'I am a lawyer,' I answered. 'Master Shardlake.'

'See,' the other said. 'He's come to do us out of the commons. A fucking hunchback too, to make sure we have ill luck.'

Ettis stared at me. 'Well? Is that why you're here? You should know the men of Hoyland fear no lawyers. If you try to cheat us out of our land we'll go to the Court of Requests. We have friends in other villages that have protected their rights. And if Master Hobbey's tree-fellers come on our commons again we'll stop them.'

'That is not my business. I am sent by the Court of Wards to enquire into the welfare of Master Curteys.'

'He means the pocky lad,' Ettis's confederate said.

Ettis continued studying us. 'I heard there were two lawyers at the priory.'

'Master Hobbey's own lawyer is here too. On the same business as I.' I paused and looked at him meaningfully. 'That is not to say he does not have other business too, but I am no part of that.'

Ettis nodded slowly. 'Your interest is only with Master Curteys?'

'Yes. Do you know him?'

He shook his head. 'He doesn't come here. Master David comes sometimes, with his childish airs and graces that would make my old cow laugh.'

'I understand some people from the village work as servants at the house.'

'Some. Most care not to.'

'The servants seem reluctant to speak to us,' I said. 'A pity. Exchanges of information can be useful. Master Hobbey's lawyer's name, by the way, is Vincent Dyrick.'

'Leonard Ettis. Yeoman of this village.'

'Be assured we mean you no harm. We will go back now. But perhaps we might walk this way again, and talk some more?'

'Maybe,' Ettis answered non-committally.

We turned back the way we had come. Barak glanced over his shoulder. 'They're still watching us.'

'They're frightened and angry. They need their commons for grazing and wood.' I smiled. 'But they have a leader, and they know about the Court of Requests. Hobbey and Dyrick will have a fight on their hands.'

'You could have told them that you work there. That would get them on our side.'

'I don't want to anger Hobbey and Dyrick unnecessarily. Not yet. Now come, Hugh should be back soon.'

Chapter Nineteen

WE WENT BACK to the house to find the boys had just returned. Two servants were leading their horses away. Hugh and David stood in front of the entrance, showing their hawks to Feaveryear. Each held one of the big greyhounds on a leash; as Barak and I approached, the dogs sniffed the air. David's dog growled and he jerked its leash. 'Quiet, Ajax.'

Feaveryear was looking with fascination at the speckled plumage of the bird Hugh held at the end of his extended arm. The hawk turned fierce eyes on us, the bells on the jesses securing it to Hugh's gloved hand jingling. Hugh laid his other hand lightly on its back. 'Tush, Jenny, tush.' David had a bag slung over his shoulder, from which a little blood dripped.

'Good catch?' I asked him.

'A brace of plump wood pigeons, and three pheasants. We caught the pigeons on the wing,' he added impressively, his heavy features lighting up. 'A goodly feast for dinner, eh, Hugh?' It struck me David Hobbey seemed very young for eighteen. I remembered the villagers talking of his childish airs and graces.

'It would have been four had your Ajax not half-eaten the one he fetched,' Hugh said.

Feaveryear held out his hand to Hugh's bird. He smiled, his thin face full of wonder. 'Not too close, Master Feaveryear,' Hugh warned. 'She will tolerate none but me.' The hawk flapped its wings and screeched, and Feaveryear jumped back hastily. He tripped and nearly fell, windmilling his thin arms to keep his balance.

David laughed uproariously. 'You look like a scarecrow caught in the wind, clerk.'

Hugh gently pushed the hawk's spread wings back into a folded position. With his free arm he drew a leather hood from his doublet and put it over the bird's head.

Feaveryear's interest was undiminished. 'Did you raise that bird, Master Hugh?'

'No.' Hugh fixed Feaveryear with those cool, unreadable eyes. 'The bird is raised by a falconer. As a chick it is blinded by having its eyelids sewn together, so it comes to depend on people for food. When it is a year old its eyelids are unsewn and it is trained to hunt.'

'But that is cruel.'

David slapped Feaveryear on the shoulder, nearly knocking him over again. 'You are new to the ways of the country.'

Hugh turned to me, the watchful look in his eyes again. 'You wished to take my deposition, I think, Master Shardlake?'

'Yes, please. Feaveryear, will you fetch your master? Then we can begin.'

'We will take the birds to their perches,' Hugh said, 'and get the greyhounds away. Mistress Abigail does not like them near the house.' Again, that coldly formal reference to Abigail. The boys headed for the outhouses, and Feaveryear went indoors.

'That David is a taunting little knave,' Barak said. 'Needs a good slap.'

'He is childish, with no great brains. Yet all his father's hopes must rest on him. As for Hugh—I think he left childhood behind long ago. Let us see if we can find out why.'

WHEN WE ARRIVED in Hobbey's study Dyrick and Feaveryear were already present. A few minutes later Hugh walked in, confidently, almost defiantly. The afternoon sunlight emphasized the marks on his face and neck. I looked away, remembering Bess's comment about his ruined handsomeness. It was not quite so bad as that, but bad enough.

'Pray sit down, Master Hugh,' Dyrick said. He reached across to the hourglass and turned it over. 'To record time spent, for my bill of costs,' he explained with a cold smile. Hugh sat and stared at me, slim, long-fingered hands at rest in his lap. I saw that Feaveryear looked embarrassed.

'I think it best to come straight to the point,' I began. 'No beating the bushes with lawyer's words, as they say.'

'Thank you.'

'We are here because of accusations made by Michael Calfhill, God rest him. He said that when he visited here earlier this year, he found monstrous wrongs had been done to you. Have you any idea what he might have meant?'

He looked me straight in the eye. 'None, sir.'

A triumphant smile crossed Dyrick's face. 'Well,' I said, 'let us see. Tell me, what do you remember of the time when you and your sister became wards?'

'Very little. We were so grief shot we scarcely cared what went on around us.' Despite his words Hugh's tone remained unemotional.

'Michael Calfhill had been your tutor then for over a year. Were you close to him?'

'I liked and respected him. I would not say we were close.'

'Did you know that Michael tried to prevent Master Hobbey from obtaining your wardship?'

'We knew there were some arguments. But we did not care where we went.'

'You barely knew the Hobbeys.'

He shrugged. 'We knew they were friends of Father's. As I said, we did not care.'

'Did you care whether Michael Calfhill came with you?'

He considered the question for a moment. 'He was good to us. But Emma and I thought only of each other then.' His voice wavered and he clutched his hands together. I was sorry for the pain my questions must bring, though the boy tried not to show it. He said, very quietly, 'Emma and I could communicate by looking across a room, without words, as though we had been taken to our own private sphere of the universe.'

'We are upsetting Master Curteys,' Dyrick said. 'Perhaps we should adjourn—'

'No,' Hugh said with sudden fierceness. 'I would have this over and done.'

I nodded. 'Then can I ask, Hugh, were you and your sister well treated by Master and Mistress Hobbey?'

'They gave us good food and clothing, shelter and learning. But no one could replace our parents. No one could feel that loss save Emma and I. I wish people could understand that.'

'It is indeed understandable,' Dyrick said. This deposition was going his way.

'A last word concerning your poor sister,' I said quietly. 'Michael Calfhill said you had a fight with David over some improper words he used to her.'

Hugh smiled tightly and humourlessly. 'David is always saying improper words. You have met him. Once he made a coarse suggestion to Emma. I struck him for it and he learned not to do it again.'

'Was there ever talk of Emma marrying David?'

A fierce look sparked in Hugh's eyes for a moment. 'That would never have happened. Emma never liked him.'

'Yet you and David are friends now?'

He shrugged. 'We go hawking and practise archery together.'

'Michael Calfhill's mother said Michael first taught you and your sister to pull the bow.'

'He did. I am grateful to him for that.'

'Yet Master Hobbey dismissed him. He says he feared impropriety between him and you.'

Hugh met my look, then shook his head slowly. 'There was nothing improper between us.'

'But Master Hobbey must have thought he had reason to dismiss him,' Dyrick put in sharply.

'Perhaps Master Hobbey believed he saw something. But I have no accusations to make against Michael Calfhill.' Hugh looked at Dyrick, and now there was a challenge in his eyes.

'Perhaps you do not care to remember,' Dyrick suggested.

'I have nothing to remember.'

'I think that is quite clear, Brother,' I said. 'Now, Hugh, after Michael left you had other tutors. They seem to have come and gone.'

He shrugged. 'One got married. One went to travel. And David did not make life easy for them.'

'And then this Easter Michael suddenly reappeared, running up to you in the garden?'

Hugh was silent for a long moment. He looked down. 'That I do not understand,' he said at length. 'He appeared like a thunderbolt. He must have been hiding among the headstones in the old cemetery, watching David and I shoot our arrows. He pulled at my arm and demanded I come away with him, said I did not belong here.'

'Master Hobbey says he told you he loved you as no other,' I said quietly.

The boy looked up, challenge in his eyes again. 'I do not remember him saying that.' He seeks to protect Michael, I thought. Is he speaking the truth or not?

'You were upset,' Dyrick said. 'Maybe you did not hear.' He smiled encouragingly. Hugh stared back at Dyrick with a cold dislike that discomfited even him for a moment. Then Dyrick said lightly, 'Master Hobbey tells us you would go for a soldier?'

'Truly I would.' Hugh stared at him, emotion entering his voice. 'Less than ten miles from here our ships and men make ready to fight. What Englishman would not wish to serve in this hour? I am young, but I am as good an archer as any. But for my wardship I would serve.'

'You forget, Master Hugh, you are responsible for a large estate. A gentleman with responsibilities.'

'Responsibilities?' Hugh laughed bitterly. 'To woods and badgers and foxes? I have no interest in those, sir. David has his family to consider. But I have none.'

'Come,' Dyrick said reprovingly, 'you are part of the Hobbey family.'

Hugh looked at me. 'The family I loved are all dead. The Hobbeys—' he hesitated—'can never replace those I lost.'

'But you are young,' Dyrick said, 'and quite rich. In time you will marry and have your own family.'

Hugh continued to look at me. 'I would rather defend my country.'

Dyrick inclined his head. 'Then I say, young man, thank heaven for the Court of Wards, and Master Hobbey's authority over you. Do you not agree, Brother Shardlake?'

'I applaud your honourable nature, Master Hugh,' I said quietly. 'But war is a matter of blood and death.'

'Do you think I do not know that?' he answered scornfully.

There was silence for a moment. Then Dyrick asked, 'Are there any more questions?'

I repeated my formula. 'Not for now.' Hugh rose, bowed, and walked from the room. Dyrick looked at me triumphantly. Hugh had not accused Michael, but neither had he accused the Hobbeys of anything, anything at all.

AFTERWARDS I invited Barak to my room to talk. 'Well,' he began, 'so much for our main witness.'

I paced up and down, frowning. 'I don't understand it. Hobbey and Fulstowe were practised, but Hugh—'

'It was almost as though he did not care.'

'Yet he did not endorse what Hobbey said about Michael. Neither that Michael behaved improperly when he was a boy, nor that he said he loved him this spring.'

'He said nothing against the Hobbeys. You can see he thinks David a fool, but who could think otherwise?'

'Why does he care nothing for his estates?'

Barak looked at me seriously. 'Maybe he just never got over his parents and sister dying.'

'After all this time? And if he despises David, why spend so much time with him?'

'There is no one else his age here. We don't choose our families, nor our adopted ones.'

'There is more to it than that,' I insisted. 'He bit down hard on his feelings when I mentioned Michael.'

'Maybe he is trying to protect his memory. For Mistress Calfhill's sake.'

'He barely knew her.' I looked at him. 'I swear he is hiding something. They all are. It is just a feeling, but a powerful one.'

Barak nodded slowly. 'I feel it too. But if Hugh will make no complaint, there is nothing to be done.'

'I must think. Let us go for a walk after dinner. I'll come to your room.'

'Meantime I suppose I'll have Feaveryear arguing every dot and comma of the deposition again.'

Barak left for his quarters, and I lay down to rest. Yet my mind was too agitated for me to settle. After a while I decided to go and see if dinner was ready. A little way up the corridor a door stood open. It was dark within, the shutters must be drawn. I heard quiet voices, Nicholas and Abigail.

'He will be gone soon,' Nicholas was saying in impatient tones.

'I can't stand the sight of his bent back.' Abigail sounded utterly weary. 'And that snarling cur Dyrick is loathsome. And I still don't want to have the hunt.'

'Wife, I cannot stand this isolation any longer,' Hobbey replied angrily. 'I tell you, it is safe.'

'We are never safe.'

I started as a little face appeared at the bottom of the doorway. Lamkin came out and waddled towards me, tail wagging. I stepped quickly back into my room, quietly closing the door on the dog. I stood there, thinking hard.

ALTHOUGH the birds taken by the boys were served in more rich sauces from the Hobbey kitchen, dinner was a miserable meal. Abigail was last to arrive, pale and obviously still in pain from her headache. As she entered, Fulstowe, positioned behind Hobbey's chair again, bowed. Dyrick and I stood and Hobbey half-rose, but neither Hugh nor David troubled to rise for her. It was an insult to the mistress of the house, but Abigail seemed hardly to notice. She had taken no trouble over her appearance today, her long grey-blonde hair drooping from the back of her hood. She said nothing during the meal, picking at her food and wincing at the clatter of plates. Hobbey engaged Dyrick in talk about the conversion of the nunnery. He tried to draw David into the discussion, but the boy seemed to have no interest in the house. I saw Hobbey look at him both lovingly and sorrowfully. Hugh sat opposite me. I took the opportunity to lean forward and speak quietly. 'I am sorry if my enquiries stirred sad memories, Master Hugh. Unfortunately asking difficult questions is a lawyer's lot.'

'I understand, Master Shardlake,' he said sadly. He hesitated, then added, 'I promised to let you see my copy of Toxophilus. I will have a servant fetch it to your room. I would welcome another view on it.'

'Thank you. That is kind.'

I saw David had been listening to us, caught a strange look on his heavy features. He met my eye and said loudly, 'Where were you and your servant coming back from earlier, Master Shardlake? Was it the village?'

'Yes.'

Hobbey gave me a sharp look.

'Did you see any of those jumped-up serfs?' David asked with a laugh.

'We just went for a walk.'

Ursula, the old servant, was reaching forward just then to pick up an empty dish. David leaned back and his shoulder caught her arm, making her drop the dish on the table with a clatter. Abigail wailed at the noise and put her hands to her ears. 'Will you be careful?' she screeched. 'You foolish booby!'

'Abigail,' Nicholas said warningly. A smile of cruel amusement crossed Fulstowe's face, instantly suppressed. Abigail glared at her husband, then rose from the table and left the room.

'I am sorry,' Nicholas said quietly. 'My wife is unwell.'

I looked at the boys. Hugh's face was expressionless again. David looked crushed.

AFTERWARDS I went round to Barak's quarters. The summer evening had begun, casting long shadows over the lawns. The old stones of the priory looked warm and mellow. Barak was in his room, reading Tamasin's letter again. We walked round to the front of the house, where Lamkin lay dozing on his back under a tree. We went past the butts and into the little graveyard. It was very overgrown. I saw a flash of colour among the greenery. Flowers had been laid by a headstone. Sister Jane Samuel, 1462-1536.

'Probably one of the last nuns to die here,' I said. 'I wonder who put these flowers here.'

'Ursula perhaps,' Barak suggested. 'Hobbey would not approve.'

'No. Listen, I overheard something earlier.' I told him about the Hobbeys' conversation. 'Abigail is frightened, she said she and Hobbey would never be safe. And why is she afraid of having the hunt?'

'You sure you heard right?'

'Yes. I have a duty to find out what is happening,' I said firmly. 'It is what the Queen would wish.'

He shook his head. 'You and the Queen. I just want to go home.'

I RETURNED to my room. A book had been laid on my bed. Toxophilus, by Roger Ascham. I lay down on the bed and opened it. It began with a flowery dedication to the King, and his 'most honourable and victorious journey into France'. Victorious, I thought. Then why are we poised against a French invasion? And honourable—I recalled what Leacon had said about the waging of war on women and children in Scotland. I leafed through the text. The first part was a dialogue in which Toxophilus—clearly Ascham—described the virtues of archery to an appreciative student. Archery, as an exercise that trained all parts of the body, was contrasted to the risks and dangers of gambling. Ascham praised war: 'Strong weapons be the instruments with which God doth overcome that part which he will have overthrown.'

I thought back to my childhood. I had tried pulling a bow at our village butts just once, my father had taken me when I was ten with a little bow he had bought for me. My deformity had meant I could not take a proper stance with the bow; my arrow, released, had dropped to the ground. The village boys laughed, and I ran home in tears. Later my father had said, in the disappointed tones I had already come to know, that I was not formed for the art and need not go again.

I took up the book once more, persisting. I passed to the second part, where the dialogue changed to a discussion of the skills and techniques of archery: what to wear, how to stand, the types of bows and arrows—thorough and detailed knowledge.

I laid down the book and went to stand by the open window, looking out on the lawn. What was happening here? Hobbey might be creaming off the profits from felling trees on Hugh's lands, but there was more to it than that. Yet Hugh seemed to have complete freedom. I knew from long experience that families will sometimes make one member a scapegoat for their troubles, but from what I had seen it was not Hugh but Abigail who had that role here. What was she so frightened of?

TO MY SURPRISE I slept well. A servant woke me at seven as I had asked. Outside the spell of fine weather seemed over; it was cloudy, close and sticky. I dressed once more in my serjeant's robes. I still had Emma's cross round my neck, I should give it to Hugh. I remembered Avery saying he wore this gruesome heartstone.

There was a knock at my door. Dyrick stood there. He too had put on his robe, and slicked down his coppery hair with water.

'Fulstowe says we may have a storm before the day is out. Perhaps you should postpone your ride through the woods.'

'No,' I answered briefly. 'I shall go today.'

He shrugged. 'As you wish. I came to tell you Mistress Hobbey is better, she is willing to be deposed. Unless, having seen Hugh, you will end this nonsense now.'

'No,' I answered. 'Can you ask Fulstowe to have Barak fetched?' Dyrick made an impatient sound and turned away.

WE GATHERED again in Nicholas's study. Abigail was already there, sitting under the portrait of the abbess of Wherwell. She had taken care of her appearance today, her hair was tied up, her face powdered. Lamkin sat on a little rug on her lap.

'I hope you are feeling better, Mistress Hobbey,' I began.

'Better than I was.' She glanced nervously at Barak and Feaveryear, their quills poised. 'Then I will begin,' I said. 'I wonder, madam, what you thought when your husband suggested buying Hugh and Emma's wardship.'

She looked me in the eye. 'I was glad of it, for I could have no more children. I welcomed Hugh and Emma. I had always wanted a daughter especially.' She sighed deeply. 'But the children would not let me close to them. They had lost their parents. Yet do not many children lose their parents young?' Her look had a sort of appeal in it.

'Sadly they do. I understand Reverend Broughton, the Curteyses' vicar, opposed the wardship. You and he had words.'

Abigail raised her chin defiantly. 'Yes. He defamed my husband and me. Everything about the wardship was done properly.'

'Master Shardlake cannot dispute that,' Dyrick said. He was watching Abigail carefully, anxious I guessed lest she lose control.

'It must have been terrible when all the children took smallpox. I understand you took care of David yourself, despite the danger.'

A flash of anger in her face. 'And neglected Hugh and Emma, is that what you imply? Well, sir, whatever Michael Calfhill may have said, that is not true. I constantly visited Hugh and Emma. But they only wanted to see each other, only each other.' She lowered her head and I realized she was weeping. Lamkin whined, looking up at his mistress, and she stroked his head as she reached for a handkerchief. 'I lost Emma,' Abigail said quietly. 'I lost the girl I wanted for my daughter. It was my fault, all my fault. God forgive me.'

'How was it your fault, Mistress Abigail?'

Her tear-stained face suddenly closed and her eyes flickered away from mine. 'I—I sent for some red cloth, it draws the bad humours out, but I had left it too late, there was none—'

I said, 'But yesterday Fulstowe told me he managed to get some.'

Dyrick looked quickly at Abigail. 'Perhaps you meant to say he got it too late to save Emma.'

'Yes, that was it,' she said hurriedly. 'I was mistaken, it was too late.'

'You are leading the witness, Master Dyrick,' I said angrily. 'Barak, make sure his intervention is entered in the record.'

'I apologize,' Dyrick said smoothly. Abigail took deep breaths, visibly bringing herself under control. I thought, why does she really hold herself responsible for Emma's death?

I asked how she and Hugh got on now. She answered curtly, 'Well enough.' Finally I asked her about Michael Calfhill. 'I never liked him,' she said defiantly. 'He tried to drive a wedge between me and the children.'

'Why would he do that?'

'Because he wanted them to cleave to him, not to my husband and me.'

'Both Hugh and Emma?'

'Yes,' she answered quietly. Then she said in a rush, her voice shaking, 'But Michael Calfhill had such a terrible, agonized death. God pardon him, God pardon him.'

'Do you know why he was dismissed?'

She took a deep breath, bringing herself under control again. 'Only that it was for impropriety. My husband told me the reasons were such as a woman should not know. That is all.'

'Is there anything else, Master Shardlake?' Dyrick asked.

'No.' I had plenty to digest already. 'I may have further questions later.'

'Master Shardlake always says that,' Dyrick told Abigail wearily. 'Thank you, Mistress.'

Abigail wrapped the rug round Lamkin, rose from the chair, and carried the dog out of the room, hugging it to her bosom. I thought of her fear of the servants, her endless snappish battling with her son, her husband's impatience with her and Hugh's cold indifference. Poor woman, I thought. That dog is all she has left to love.

Chapter Twenty

AFTER LUNCH Barak and I fetched two of the horses we had hired in Kingston, and set out to look at the woodland. I took Oddleg, the strong, placid horse that had brought me from London. The pall of grey cloud had thickened, and the air was uncomfortably heavy. We took the Portsmouth road south; Hobbey had told us that in that direction trees were being cut on both Hugh's estate and his.

To the right one of the communal village fields sloped gently away, its strips of different crops a riot of colour. Villagers working there glanced up, some staring at us. As we rode on the woodland to our left gave way to the cleared area, stretching back a good half-mile to where the forest remained untouched, a line of unbroken green. Thin young trees were thrusting up from the undergrowth, mostly pollarded so that the trunks would divide into two trees.

We stopped. 'This area was felled some time ago,' Barak observed.

'They felled everything, not just the mature trees. It will be decades before the forest returns here. That is Hugh's land. How much the timber fetches depends on the type of tree. Prime oak, or elm or ash?' I shook my head. 'Fraud is so easy.'

Behind us a trumpet sounded suddenly. We pulled in to the side as a company of soldiers tramped by, raising clouds of dust. The men looked tired and weary, many footsore. A whiffler walked up and down the line, calling on laggards to raise their feet. The baggage train rumbled past and the company disappeared round a bend. I wondered how Leacon was faring in Portsmouth.

We rode on a further mile or two. To the left the cleared area gave way again to dense forest. There was woodland to the right, too, which from the plan was the village woodland Hobbey wanted. The road sloped gently upwards, and now we could see the line of a high hill in the distance; Portsdown Hill, with the sea on the other side. Then we came on an area where men were felling trees. Almost all had been cut, back to a distance of a hundred yards. One group of men was sawing up a felled oak, another stripping leaves from branches piled on the ground. Long sections of trunk were being loaded onto an ox cart.

'Let's talk to them,' I said. We rode carefully past the stumps, most still gleaming raw and yellow, and halted a little distance from the work. A man came across to us, a tall stringy fellow. He removed his cap and bowed.

'Good afternoon, gentlemen.'

'I am Master Shardlake, lawyer to Hugh Curteys that owns this land. I am staying with Master Hobbey at Hoyland Priory.'

'Master Fulstowe said you might be coming,' the man answered. 'As you see, we are working hard. I am Peter Drury, the foreman.' He had watchful little button eyes.

'You seem to be cutting a great swathe here. What trees are you felling?'

'Everything, sir. Some oak, but the cleared part was mostly ash and elm. The oak goes to Portsmouth, the branches to the charcoal burners.'

'It will be years before there are trees worth cutting here again.'

'It may be long before prices rise so high again, sir. So Master Hobbey says.'

'You are contracted to him, then?'

'Ay. He has the lad's wardship, has he not?' A touch of truculence entered his voice.

'So he does. Are your men local, from Hoyland perhaps?'

Drury laughed. 'Those hogs wouldn't work here. When some of my men went on to their village woods they made great complaint. No, my lads are from up beyond Horndean.' Beyond the reach of local loyalties, I thought. I thanked him, and we rode back to the road.

We continued south, to an area the felling had not yet reached. I saw a narrow path leading into the forest. 'Come,' I said, 'let's see what types of trees these are. There seems to be more oak than that fellow suggested.'

Barak looked up dubiously at the darkening sky. 'It looks like rain.'

'Then we'll get wet.'

We began riding into the forest, picking our way in single file along the narrow path. The air seemed even heavier among the trees.

'Do you still wear that old Jewish symbol round your neck?' I asked over my shoulder.

'The old mezuzah my father left me? Yes, why do you ask?'

'I have Emma Curteys' little cross around mine. I will give it to Hugh, but not in front of the Hobbeys. Did you know he wears some piece of bone from the heart of a deer round his neck?'

'The heartstone? Yes, I talked to Master Avery last night, the huntmaster. He seemed a decent fellow.'

I glanced round. 'Did he say anything about the family?'

'He closed up when I asked. Under orders from Fulstowe, I would guess.' He halted suddenly, raising a hand.

'What is it?'

'I thought I heard hoofbeats, back on the road. Then they stopped.'

'I can't hear anything.' There was nothing but the buzz of insects, little rustlings in the undergrowth as small animals fled from us. 'Maybe you imagined it.'

'I don't imagine things.' Barak frowned. 'Let's get this over with before we get soaked.'

The path narrowed to little more than a track winding through the trees. This was true ancient forest, some of the trees gigantic, hundreds of years old. They grew in profusion and great variety, but oaks with wide spreading branches dominated. The undergrowth was heavy, nettles and brambles and small bushes. The earth, where it could be seen, was dark, soft-looking, a pretty contrast to the bright summer green.

'How far does the Curteys land extend?' Barak asked.

'Three miles here according to the plan. We'll follow the path another half mile or so, then come back. This is mainly oak, and that fetches twice what the other trees will. That foreman was lying, and I think Hobbey's accounts have been doctored.'

'Different types of trees can grow in different places.'

'That is what makes anything difficult to prove.'

We rode on. I was bewitched by the silence among the great trees. According to the Romans, all England looked like this once. I remembered a boyhood visit to the Forest of Arden, riding with my father along a similar path, the one time he took me hunting.

Then I saw a brown shape move ahead, and raised a hand. I saw we were by a little clearing where a deer, a fallow doe, stood cropping the grass, two little fauns at her side. She looked up as we appeared, then turned and in a moment all three had fled into the trees in a rapid, fluid movement. A crashing of undergrowth, then silence.

'So that's a wild deer,' Barak said.

'You've never seen one?'

'I'm a London boy. But even I can see this track is fading out.' He was right, the pathway was becoming mossy and hard to follow.

'A little further.'

Barak sighed. We rode past the trunk of an enormous old oak. Then a sudden ruffle of wind set the leaves waving, and a large raindrop landed on my hand. A moment later the heavens opened and a sheet of rain fell down, soaking us in an instant.

'Shit!' Barak exclaimed. 'I said this would happen!'

We turned back to the enormous old oak, making the horses push through the undergrowth so we could gain shelter by the trunk. We sat there as the rain pelted down, the wind that had come with it making the whole forest seem to shiver.

'That path'll be just mud when we ride back,' Barak said.

'Hard rain soon passes. And these are good horses.'

'If I get congestion of the lungs, can I charge that up to Master costs—'

He broke off at a sudden, reverberating thud. We both turned. An arrow projected from the trunk above our heads, the white-feathered tip still trembling.

'Ride!' Barak yelled.

He gave his horse a prick of the spurs. We crashed out onto the path, which was slippery now. Every second I expected to feel an arrow in my back or see Barak fall, for on the path we were hardly less easy targets than under the tree. But nothing happened. After ten minutes' desperate and difficult riding we stopped in a clearing.

'We've outrun him now,' Barak said. Even so we both stared wide-eyed through the pelting rain at the trees, aware of just how helpless we were against a concealed archer.

'Come on,' Barak said.

It was with relief that we reached the highway again. The rain was easing now. We stopped, staring back the way we had come.

'Who was it?' Barak asked, almost shouting.

'Someone scaring us off? That was a warning; under that tree a bowman with any skill could have killed us both easily.'

'Another warning? Like the corner boys? Remember I heard those hoofbeats on the road? Someone rode after us, someone who knows these woods.'

'We'll have to tell Hobbey, report it to the magistrate.'

'What's he going to do? I tell you, the sooner we're out of here the better. God damn it!'

We rode back to Hoyland Priory. Once Barak would have dashed recklessly in pursuit of that archer, I thought. But now he has Tamasin and the coming child to consider.

WE ARRIVED back at the house. The rain had stopped, though there was still a breeze freshening the air. Old Ursula was in the great hall, polishing the table, and I asked her to fetch Hobbey.

'He's out, sir. Gone to the village with Master Dyrick. Mistress Hobbey is unwell again. She's in bed with that dog,' she added with a disgusted grimace.

'Then please fetch the steward.'

Moments later Fulstowe strode into the hall. He looked at us curiously as I told him what had happened in the wood. 'A poacher, without doubt,' he said when I had finished. 'Perhaps a deserter from the army, they say some are living wild in the forests. We have a forester to patrol Master Hugh's woods but he is a lazy fellow. He will be sorry for this.'

'Why should a poacher draw attention to himself?' Barak asked sharply.

'You said you disturbed some deer. Maybe he was stalking them. They would be a great prize for a deserter, or one of those hogs from the village. Maybe he shot to send you out of the woods.' He frowned. 'But it is a serious matter, the magistrate should be told. A pity you did not see him. If we could get one of those Hoyland churls hanged, it would be a lesson to all of them.'

'Barak thought he heard hoofbeats on the road.'

'They stopped just where we had entered the wood.' Barak looked hard at Fulstowe. I could see he was wondering, as I had, whether the archer had come from the house.

Fulstowe shook his head. 'A poacher would not be on a horse.'

'No,' I agreed. 'He would not.'

'I will have you informed as soon as Master Hobbey returns. I regret this should happen while you are his guest.' He bowed and left us.

'I am sorry I brought you to peril after all,' I said quietly to Barak. 'After what I promised Tamasin.'

He sighed heavily. 'If I weren't here, I'd be in the army. And you're right, we weren't in danger. He shot that arrow to miss.' He looked at me. 'Are you still going to ride to Rolfswood tomorrow?'

'This may be my only opportunity.'

'I'll come if you like.'

'No,' I replied firmly. 'I want you to stay here, work on the servants. See if you can learn anything from Ursula. Maybe visit the village again.'

'All right,' he agreed reluctantly. I turned and went upstairs, feeling his concerned eyes on my back.

I LOOKED OVER my copies of the depositions in my room. Then I went over to the window, drawn by the sound of voices. Hugh and David were by the butts. Fulstowe was with them, Barak and Feaveryear too. I went downstairs to join them. The sun had come out again, making the wet grass sparkle prettily as I walked up to the group. There was still a little wind, high white clouds scudding across the sky. Hugh was instructing Feaveryear in pulling a bow, while David stood watching with Barak. Fulstowe looked on with an indulgent smile. Arrows had been stuck in the grass, their white-feathered tips reminding me of what had happened in the forest.

Feaveryear had put on a long, thick shooting glove and held a beautiful bow, a little shorter and thinner than those I had seen the soldiers use, the outer side golden and the inner creamy white, polished to bright smoothness. Decorated horn nocks were carved into teardrop shapes at each end. Feaveryear had fitted a steel-tipped arrow to the bow, and was pulling with all his strength. His thin arms trembled, but he could only pull the hempen string back a few inches. His face was red and sweating.

Beside him Hugh held up an arrow, watching as the wind ruffled the goose-feather fletches slightly. 'Swing your body a little to the left, Master Samuel,' he said quietly. 'You have to take account of the wind. Now bend your left leg back, and push forward, as though you were making a throw.' Feaveryear hesitated. 'See, I will show you.' Hugh took the bow. He stood, thrusting his weight backward as he pulled on the string. Through his shirt I saw the outline of tight, corded muscles.

'Concentrate on the target,' he told Feaveryear, 'not the arrow. Think only of that and loose. Now, try it.'

Feaveryear took the bow again, glanced round at us, then pulled the bow back a little further and loosed the arrow with a grunt. It rose a little in the air, then buried its point in the grass a short way off. David laughed and slapped his thigh. Fulstowe smiled sardonically. 'Well done, Feaveryear,' David said sarcastically. 'Last time it only dropped from the bow!'

'I am useless,' Feaveryear said with a sad laugh. 'I succeed only in pulling my arms from their sockets.'

'Ignore David,' Hugh said. 'It takes years of practice to strengthen your arms to pull a bow properly. But anyone may learn, and see, already you improve a little.'

'It is hard work.'

'"The fostering of shooting is labour, that companion of virtue,"' I quoted from Toxophilus.

Hugh looked at me with interest. 'You have read the book, Master Shardlake.'

'He makes some pretty phrases.'

'It is a great book,' Hugh replied earnestly.

'I would not go quite so high as that.' I noticed Hugh and David had both been shaved, David's dark stubble reduced to the merest shadow on his cheeks while Hugh had a little cut by one of the scars on his neck. 'Perhaps we may discuss the book sometime.'

'I should like that, Master Shardlake. I have little opportunity to discuss books. David can barely read,' he added jestingly, but with an edge. David scowled.

'I shoot better than you,' he said. 'Here, Feaveryear, I will show you how a truly strong archer shoots.' He picked up his own bow from the grass. Like Hugh's it was beautifully made, though not quite so highly polished.

'Such achievement for a youngling,' Barak said, straight faced. David frowned, unsure if he were jesting. Then he strung the bow, bent to it, came up and loosed the arrow. It sped through the air and hit the target, missing the centre by a few inches.

'Not quite so good as Hugh,' Fulstowe said quietly, with a little smile.

David rounded on him. 'I have the greater strength. Set the butts further off and I would beat him easily.'

'I think perhaps your argument is groundless,' I ventured to the boys. 'Toxophilus says range and accuracy are both needed. You both excel, and if one has a little more of each quality than the other, what matter?'

'David and I have been jesting and bickering these last five years, sir,' Hugh said wearily. 'It is what we do, the subject matters not. Tell me,' he added earnestly, 'what is it you find to criticize in Toxophilus?'

'His liking for war. And his praise for the King has a crawling quality.'

'Should we not foster the arts of war to protect ourselves?' Hugh asked with quiet intensity. 'Are we to allow the French to invade and have their will with us?'

'No. But we should ask how we came to this. If the King had not invaded France last year—'

'For hundreds of years Gascony and Normandy were ours.' For the first time I heard Hugh speak with real passion. 'It was our birthright from the Normans before upstart French nobles started calling themselves kings—'

'So King Henry would say.'

'He is right.'

'Do not let Father hear you talking like that,' David said. 'You know he will not let you go for a soldier.' Then, to my surprise, his voice took on a note of entreaty. 'And without you who should I have to hunt with?' David turned to me. 'We went out this morning, and our greyhounds caught half a dozen hares. Though my fast hound caught more—'

'Be quiet,' Hugh said with sudden impatience. 'Your endless who-is-better-than-who will drive me brainsick!'

David looked hurt. 'But competition is the spice of life. In Father's business—'

'Are we not supposed to be gentlemen now? Do you know what a hobby is, Master Shardlake?'

'A hunting hawk,' I answered.

'Ay, the smallest and meanest of birds.'

David's eyes widened with hurt. I thought he might burst into tears.

'That's enough, both of you,' Fulstowe snapped. To my surprise he spoke as though he had the authority of a parent. Both boys were silent at once.

'Please do not argue,' Feaveryear said with sudden emotion, his prominent Adam's apple jerking up and down. 'You are brothers, Christians—'

He was interrupted by a loud voice calling his name. Dyrick was striding across the lawn. He looked angry, his face almost as red as his hair. 'What are you doing shooting with the boys? And you, Barak! You were told to keep to the servants' quarters. Master steward, do you not know your master's instructions?'

Fulstowe did not reply, but gave Dyrick a cold look. 'The boys invited us,' Barak said, a dangerous edge to his voice.

'So we did, sir,' Hugh said. 'For some new company.'

Dyrick ignored them. 'Come with me, Sam! Quick! Ettis and a bunch of clods from the village are shouting Master Hobbey down in his own study. I want what they say recorded!'

'Yes, sir,' Feaveryear answered humbly. Dyrick turned and strode away, Feaveryear following.

'Come boys,' Fulstowe said. 'I think we should go in. And it is not sensible to argue in front of our guests.' He looked at Hugh and David, and some understanding seemed to pass between the three. They went off after Dyrick and Feaveryear. Barak glanced over the building, eyes narrowed. 'We could go for a little walk and pass under the study window. It's at the back of the house. We might find something out. See, they have opened all the windows to let in the breeze.'

I hesitated, then nodded. 'This case leads me into bad habits,' I muttered as I followed him round to the back of the house, where a stretch of lawn faced the old convent wall. Raised voices could be heard from Hobbey's study. I recognized the Hampshire burr of Ettis, whom we had met in the village. He was shouting. 'You want to steal our commons. Then where will the poor villagers get wood and food for their pigs?'

'Take care, Goodman Ettis!' Dyrick's loud rasp cut like a knife. 'Your boorish ways will serve you ill here. Do not forget that some of the cottagers have already sold their land to Master Hobbey. So less common land will be needed.'

'Only four. And only when you threatened them with repossession when they got behind with their rent. And the grant is clear! The priory granted Hoyland village our woods near four hundred years ago.'

'You have only your poor English translation of it—'

'We cannot read that Norman scribble!' another voice with a Hampshire accent shouted.

We were right under the window now. Fortunately the sill was above our heads. I looked round uneasily, fearing some servant might appear round the side of the house.

Dyrick replied forcefully, 'This grant only says the village should have use of all the woodland it needs.'

'The area was mapped out, clear as day.'

'That was done before the Black Death, since when Hoyland, like every village in England, has far fewer people. The woodland area should be correspondingly reduced.'

'I know what you have planned,' Ettis shouted back at Dyrick. 'Fell all our woodland, make great profit, then take the village lands and turn everything over to more woodland. No knife-tongued lawyer will talk us out of our rights! We will go to the Court of Requests!'

'You'd better hurry, then,' I heard Hobbey answer smoothly. 'I've ordered my woodsmen to start again on the area you wrongly call yours next week. And you people had better not impede them.'

'Note they've been warned, Feaveryear,' Dyrick added. 'In case we need to show the magistrate.'

'Who is in your pocket,' Ettis said bitterly.

Then we heard a bang, which must have been the door opening and slamming against the wall. Abigail's voice cried out shrilly, 'Rogues and vagabonds! Nicholas, Fulstowe tells me they shot an arrow at the hunchback lawyer in the forest! You villains!' she screamed.

'Shot?' Hobbey sounded shocked. 'Abigail, what do you mean?'

'I have just seen Master Shardlake,' Dyrick said. 'He looks no worse than he ever does.'

'He wasn't hit! But they did it!'

Then I heard Fulstowe's voice: he must have heard the commotion and come in. 'Shardlake and his clerk were shot at while riding Master Hugh's woodland. They surprised a deer: it must have been a poacher warning them off. No one was hurt, nor meant to be,' he added impatiently.

'You stupid woman!' It was the first time I had heard Hobbey lose control. Abigail began to cry. The room had fallen silent. I inclined my head, and we began moving quietly away, round the side of the house.

'That was getting interesting,' Barak said.

'I was concerned someone would come out and see us. And I think we heard enough.' I frowned. 'That woman is so frightened.'

'She's mad.'

'It's hard to know. By the way, did you notice the way the boys took orders from Fulstowe earlier? And from what we heard there Fulstowe doesn't bother showing much respect to Abigail.'

'Who is right about the woods?' Barak asked.

'I'd need to see the land grant. But if there's a defined area, that stands well for the villagers.'

'If I go into the village while you're away, maybe it's time to tell them you are counsel at Requests. Then we might get some information.'

I considered. 'Yes. Do it. See Ettis. Tell him if they write to chambers I'll apply for an injunction as soon as I get back. On condition they say nothing to Hobbey.' I smiled. 'I can tell Hobbey about it on the day we leave.'

'You are turning into a Machiavelli since becoming a Court of Wards lawyer.'

I looked at him seriously. 'Ask Ettis to tell us in return all he can about Hugh. Something is going on in this house that we cannot see. I swear it.'

Chapter Twenty-one

SEVEN O'CLOCK the next morning found me riding north along the Portsmouth road, already a mile from Hoyland Priory. Once again I had taken Oddleg. He walked along rapidly, seeming happy to be on a long journey again. The weather was fine, a scent of dewy grass on the air which was still cool at that hour. It would be hot later, and I wore a doublet of light wool, grateful to have left my robes behind. As I rode I pondered the conversation I had had, just before I left, with Hugh.

I had asked to be called at six, and been woken by a knock on the door. Fulstowe put his head round. 'There is some breakfast downstairs, sir,' he said, adding, 'I understand you are travelling to Sussex and will not be back until tomorrow afternoon.'

'Yes. A piece of business for another client. Thank you.' I had already told Hobbey that, and no more—I was not going to tell them anything about Ellen. I rose and dressed. Then I picked up Emma's decorated cross from my bedside table and Hugh's copy of Toxophilus. I stepped quietly into the corridor and walked along to Hugh's room. I hesitated briefly, then knocked. I had gone there the previous evening, but either he was not there or was not answering. Here was a rare chance to speak with him undisturbed.

This time he answered the door, already dressed in shirt and doublet.

'I am sorry to disturb you so early,' I said, 'but I am setting out for Sussex now, and I wanted to return your book.'

He hesitated a moment before inviting me in, as courtesy demanded.

The room was furnished with a bed, a chest and a table, and a wall hanging in green and white stripes, the Tudor colours. On a shelf above the table I saw, to my surprise, a collection of perhaps two dozen books. The room smelled strongly of wax and Hugh's bow, unstrung, leaned against a corner of the bed. A box of wax and a rag lay beside it.

'I am polishing my bow.' He gave a little smile. 'Mistress Abigail prefers me to do it outside, but at this hour who will know?'

'It is early indeed.'

'I like to rise before everyone else, have some time to myself before they are all up.' I caught a note of contempt in Hugh's voice and looked at him keenly. He coloured and put a hand to his neck. He is very conscious of those marks, I thought.

'You have many books,' I said. 'May I look?'

'Please do.'

There were Latin and Greek classics, a book on manners for young gentlemen, and copies of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, The Book of the Hunt and Boorde's Dietary of Health, as well as Sir Thomas More's Utopia. There were, unusually, no religious works save a New Testament.

'A fine collection,' I observed. 'Few people your age have so many.'

'Some were my father's, and Master Hobbey fetched some for me from London. But I have no one to discuss them with since our last tutor left.'

I took down The Book of the Hunt. 'This is the classic work on hunting, I believe.'

'It is. Originally by a Frenchman, but translated by the Duke of York, who died at Agincourt. When nine thousand English archers routed a huge French army,' he added proudly. He sat down on the bed.

'Are you looking forward to the hunt next week?' I asked.

'Very much. It will only be my third. We do not socialize much here.'

'I understand it has taken time for the local gentlefolk to accept the family.'

'It is only the prospect of the hunt that is bringing them. So Mistress Abigail says at least.' I realized how isolated Hugh was down here, David too.

'At my last hunt it was I who brought down the hart,' Hugh added proudly.

'I was told you were awarded the heartstone, that you wear it round your neck still.'

His hand rose to his neck again. His eyes narrowed. 'By whom?'

'Master Avery.'

'You have been questioning him about me?'

'Hugh, the only reason I am here is to look into your welfare.'

Those unreadable blue-green eyes met mine. 'I told you yesterday, sir, I have no complaints.'

'Before I left London, Bess Calfhill gave me something for you. Something Mistress Hobbey gave to Michael. It was your sister's.' I opened my hand and showed him the decorated cross. At once tears started to his eyes. He turned his head away.

'Michael kept it till he died?' Hugh asked, his voice hoarse.

'Yes, he did.' I laid the cross on the bed beside him. Hugh reached out and grasped it. He took out a handkerchief, wiped his eyes, then looked at me.

'Mistress Calfhill remembers my sister?'

'Very fondly.'

He was silent a moment, grasping the cross tightly. Then he asked, 'What is London like now? I have been here so long. I remember little more than the noise, people always shouting in the streets, and then the quiet of our garden.' Again I sensed a weariness in him that a boy of his age should not feel.

'If you went to university you could meet new people your age, Hugh, discuss books from morn to night. Master Hobbey must make provision if you want to go.'

He looked up, gave a tight smile, then quoted: '"In study every part of the body is idle, which encourages gross and cold humours."'

'Toxophilus?'

'Yes. You know I wish not to study but to go to war. Use my skills at the bow.'

'I confess I think Master Hobbey right to stop you.'

'When you go to Portsmouth on Friday, will you see your friend the captain of archers?'

'I hope so.'

'David and I are coming. To see the ships and soldiers. Tell me, were there lads my age among those archers? I have seen companies on the road to Portsmouth where some soldiers looked no older than me.'

I thought of Tom Llewellyn. 'In truth, Master Hugh, the youngest recruit I met was a year or so older than you. A right well-built lad.'

'I am strong enough, and skilled enough, too, I think, to bury a well-steeled arrow in a Frenchman's heart. God give them pestilence.' He spoke with passion. I must have looked surprised, for he flushed and lowered his head, rubbing one of the little moles on his face. Suddenly the lad seemed terribly vulnerable. He looked up again. 'Tell me, sir, is Master Dyrick your friend? They say lawyers argue over cases but are friends outside the court.'

'Sometimes they are. But Master Dyrick and I—no, we are not friends.'

He nodded. 'Good. I dislike him. But often in this life we must spend our time associating with those who are not friends, must we not?' He gave a bitter little laugh, then said, 'Time goes on, sir. I should not detain you.'

'Perhaps when I return we may discuss Toxophilus, and your other books.'

He looked up, his composure restored. 'Yes, perhaps.'

'I look forward to it.'

I left him clutching Emma's cross.

AS I RODE along I thought again of Abigail saying she did not feel safe to have the hunt, her husband replying that he could not bear the isolation here any more. What were they frightened of? Was there some connection to our being shot at the day before? Whatever was being kept hidden at Hoyland, I felt Hugh knew at least something of it. Then there was the trouble with the villagers. I reflected that the chain of events at Hoyland was typical of a landlord seeking to destroy a village and take the land for his own purposes. I had seen the pattern many times at the Court of Requests. Village politics here was typical too: independent small landowners such as Ettis taking the lead, and some of the poor villagers being intimidated into selling their leases back to the landlord.

By the time I reached the turning for Rolfswood the sun was well up and it was becoming hot. I had expected a poor country track, but the road into Sussex was well maintained. I had ridden about a mile when I noticed a smell of burning, and remembered the charcoal burners from our ride down. To my right a wide path cut through a high bank into the forest. Curious, I urged the horse onto the path.

A few hundred yards in I came to a glade where a large, beehive-shaped clay structure stood, taller than a man, smoke rising from an opening at the top. Piles of small branches were set around the clearing. Two young men sitting on a mound of earth rose as I appeared.

'Burning charcoal?' I asked.

'Ay, sir,' one answered. Both had black faces from their work. 'We don't usually work in summer, but they want as much charcoal as they can get for the foundries these days.'

'I understand they are casting cannon now.'

'That's over in the east, sir. But there is plenty of work for the small West Sussex foundries too.'

'The war brings good profits,' his friend added, 'though we see little of them.'

'I am heading for Rolfswood. I believe there used to be an ironworks there that burned down.'

'Must have been a while ago. There's no iron worked round here now.' The man paused. 'Would you take a drink of beer with us?'

'Thank you, but I must get on my way.' They seemed disappointed and I thought it must be lonely work out here, with only the charcoal pile for company.

IT WAS PAST THREE when I arrived at Rolfswood. It was a smaller place than I had expected, a main street with several good houses built of brick but not much behind except poor hovels. A straggling path led to a bridge across a little river, then across a field to an ancient-looking church. There was, I was pleased to see, a sizeable inn on the main street. Two carts passed me, full of small branches, new-cut and giving off a raw smell of sap.

I dismounted outside the inn. There I found a room for the night, which was comfortable enough. I went to the parlour to see what information I could raise; I had considered the story I would tell to explain my interest.

The parlour was empty save for an old man sitting alone at a bench. A big scent hound, a lymer, lay beside him. It raised its heavy, lugubrious face to look at me. I crossed to the serving hatch, and asked the elderly woman behind it for a beer. Her plump wrinkled face under its white coif looked friendly. I gulped down the beer, for I was sore thirsty.

'Have you travelled far, sir?' she asked.

'From near Portsmouth.'

'That's a good day's ride.' She leaned her elbows comfortably on the counter. 'What's the news from there? They say the King's coming.'

'So I hear. But I have not been to Portsmouth. I am a London lawyer; I have some business at a house north of Portsdown Hill.'

'What brings you to Rolfswood?'

'A friend in London believes he may have relatives here. I said I would come and enquire.'

She looked at me curiously. 'A good friend, to make such a long journey.'

'Their name is Fettiplace. He heard from an old aunt they once had an iron foundry here.'

'That's gone, sir,' she said gently. 'The foundry burned down near twenty years ago. Master Fettiplace and one of his workers were killed.'

I paused, as though taking in the news for the first time, then said, 'Had he any family?'

'He was a widower. He had a daughter, whose story is even sadder. She saw the fire and lost her reason because of it. They took her away, I heard to London.'

'If only my friend had known. He only recently learned he might have a Sussex connection.'

'Their house and the land the foundry stood on were sold to Master Buttress, our miller. You'll have passed the house in the main street, it's the one with the fine carvings of animals on the doorposts.'

Sold, I thought. By whom? Legally, surely, it would have gone to Ellen. 'No other Fettiplaces locally?'

'No, sir. Master Fettiplace was from somewhere in the north of the county. He came here to build the foundry.' She leaned out of the hatch, and called to the old man. 'Here, Wilf, this gentleman is enquiring after the Fettiplace foundry.' He looked up. The serving woman spoke to me quietly. 'Wilf Harrydance used to work there. He's a poor old fellow, buy him a drink and he'll tell you all he knows.'

I nodded and smiled. 'Thank you. Fetch us two more beers, will you?'

I took them over to the old man. He nodded thanks as I set a mug before him, and studied me with interest. He was well drawn in years, wearing an old smock and bald save for a few straggling grey hairs. His tanned face was wrinkled but his blue eyes were intelligent, eager with curiosity. The dog wagged its tail, no doubt looking for scraps.

'You want to hear the Fettiplace story, sir?' He waved a hand. 'I heard all you told Goodwife Bell. I may be old but my ears are good.'

'If you would. My name is Master Shardlake. You worked at the foundry?'

'I'd been with Master Fettiplace ten years when the fire happened. He wasn't a bad master.' He was silent a moment, remembering. 'It was hard work. Loading the ore and the charcoal into the furnace, checking the progress of the melt through the flue—by Mary, when you looked in there the heat near melted your eyeballs. Then scraping the bloom of melted iron out into the hearth—'

I heard Ellen's voice again. The poor man! He was all on fire! Wilf had paused and frowned, noting my inattention. 'I am sorry,' I said. 'Please go on. What sort of foundry was it? Was it what they call a bloomery?'

He nodded. 'A small one, though the bellows were water powered. Master Fettiplace came to Rolfswood as a young man, he had already made some money in the iron trade over in East Sussex. There's an outcrop of iron ore here, a small one, we're on the western fringes of the Weald. Master Fettiplace bought some woodland that he could use for making charcoal. The river goes through there too, so he put his money into damming the river to make the mill pond, and built the furnace. The flow of water turns the wheel that powers the bellows, you see?'

'Yes.'

'The iron ore gets brought in, in our case from a little further upriver where the ironstone outcrop lay, and you put it in the furnace with the charcoal. The iron melts out of the ore and falls to the bottom. You see?' he repeated, in a schoolmasterly manner.

'I think so. Another beer?'

He nodded gravely. 'Thank you.'

I fetched two more beers and set them on the table. 'What was Master Fettiplace like?'

Wilf shook his head sadly. 'William Fettiplace wasn't a lucky man. Rolfswood furnace never did very well, the quality of the ironstone was low, and with the competition from the new blast furnaces the price of charcoal kept going up. Then his wife that he was devoted to died young, leaving him with a young daughter. And he died in the fire, with my friend Peter Gratwyck. That mysterious fire.' Wilf was looking at me keenly now.

'Mysterious? I would have thought there was always a risk of fire in such places.'

He shook his head. 'It was summer, the furnace wasn't even working.' He leaned forward. 'This is how it was. The furnace was an enclosed area, a courtyard inside a wooden wall. The enclosure was mostly roofed over, except for the centre—it got very hot when the furnace was working. Inside the enclosure was the main building with the furnace at one end, and the big bellows connected to the water wheel. The rest of the enclosure was storage space—ore and coke and building materials. It was a small, old-fashioned foundry. Master Fettiplace hadn't the money to build a blast furnace. There were only a few workers. We worked our lands during the summer, and in the winter did the casting. See?'

'Yes.'

'Someone always had to be there during the summer, to take deliveries of coke and ore ready for the winter, and keep an eye on the mill pond and the wheel. Peter usually did that, he lived very close by. But that summer—it was 1526, the year before the great dearth when the crops failed through the rains. That August I remember was cold and windy, like October—'

'And the fire—' I prompted.

He leaned in very close, so I felt his warm beery breath. 'That summer Peter was living at the furnace. His wife, who was a vicious old shrew, had thrown him out, saying he drank too much. I suppose he did, but never mind that. Peter asked Master Fettiplace if he could stay at the furnace for a while, and he agreed. There was a little straw bed there, people often stayed overnight during the winter campaigns, but he was the only one there that night.' Wilf took another draught of beer and sat back. 'Ah, sir. It hurts me still to remember.' He sighed. The dog looked up at him and gave a little whine.

'Towards nine that night I was at home here in the town. A neighbour came banging at my door, saying the furnace was on fire. I ran out. Lots of people were heading for the woods. As you came close to the furnace you could see the flames through the trees, the mill pond all red, reflecting the fire. It was dreadful, the whole enclosure was ablaze from end to end when I got there. It was built of wood, you see. Ellen Fettiplace blamed Peter afterwards, said he had lit a fire in the foundry building to warm himself and started the blaze.'

'Ellen? The daughter?' I had to pretend not to know.

'That's right. She was the only witness. She and Master Fettiplace had gone for an evening walk to the furnace—Master Fettiplace wanted to check that an ore delivery had come—and found Peter drunk by the fire. Master Fettiplace shouted at him, he jumped up and somehow his clothes caught light. He fell over on the straw bed and that caught light too. There was a lot of coke dust about and the whole place went up. Peter and Master Fettiplace were burnt to death; only young Ellen got out, and it drove her mad. Too mad to appear at the inquest, a statement from her was read out.' I remembered Ellen screaming. I saw his skin melt, turn black and crack! He tried to get up but he fell!

'That was the end of my work there,' Wilf said. 'Me and half a dozen others. The foundry was never rebuilt, it didn't make enough profit. The ruins are still out there in the woods. The following year the harvest failed, we had a hard time making it through.' He looked round the empty parlour. 'Peter Gratwyck was my best friend. The nights we've sat here drinking when we were young men.'

'Do you know where the daughter went?' I asked.

'The night of the fire she ran to the local priest, old John Seckford that's still curate here. Her reason had gone. She wouldn't leave the vicarage. After the inquest she was taken away, to relatives in London they said. But your friend's never come across her?' he asked curiously.

'No.'

I thought, this is not what I expected, there is no rape in this story. 'This Ellen, what was she like?'

'A pretty enough girl. About nineteen then. But spoiled by her father, full of her own opinions. The sad thing was, at the time of the fire there was talk of her getting married.'

'To whom?'

'Master Philip West, his family have lands here. He went to serve on the King's ships after.'

'I take it the verdict at the inquest was accidental death.'

'It was.' Wilf was suddenly alert. He said, 'There were questions I wanted to ask about that fire. I didn't see why Master Fettiplace couldn't have got out. But I wasn't called. Master Quintin Priddis hurried the inquest through.'

I sat up. 'Priddis?'

Wilf's eyes narrowed. 'You know him?'

'Only by name. He is responsible for the Court of Wards in Hampshire.'

'He was one of the Sussex coroners then.'

'Did Mistress Fettiplace say how it happened that neither her father nor your friend escaped?'

'Peter's clothes were on fire and somehow Master Fettiplace's clothes caught too. So she said, and hers was the only evidence. The foundry was gone, nothing left of poor Peter or Master Fettiplace save a few bones. You are sure you don't know Quintin Priddis?' His look was anxious now.

'I have never met him.'

'I must go,' the old man said suddenly. 'My wife is expecting me back. How long are you staying in Rolfswood?'

'I leave tomorrow morning.'

He looked relieved. 'Then I wish you a safe journey. Thank you for the beers. Come, Caesar.'

He got up, the dog following. Then he paused, turned back and said, 'Talk to Reverend Seckford. Many round here think something was covered up back then. But that's all I'll say.'

He hurried out.

Chapter Twenty-two

I WALKED SLOWLY up the hill to the church. I was dusty, my legs and back stiff and aching, and I wanted nothing more than to rest. But I had little time here. I considered what old Wilf had said. He had seemed suspicious of the official version of what had happened at the foundry—but clearly knew nothing of a rape. I remembered Ellen's words, that terrible day she lost control. They were so strong! I could not move!

The church was small, a squat Norman building. Within little had changed since popish days; statues of saints were still in their places, candles burned before the main altar. Reverend Broughton would not approve, I thought. An elderly woman was replacing candles that had burned down. I went up to her.

'I am looking for Reverend Seckford.'

'He'll be in the vicarage, sir, next door.'

I went to the adjacent house. It was a poor place, wattle and daub, old paint flaking away. But Seckford was a perpetual curate, subordinate to a priest who perhaps held several parishes. I felt guilty at the thought that I was about to lie to Seckford, as I had to Wilf. But I did not want anyone here to know where Ellen was.

I knocked on the door. There were shambling footsteps, and it was opened by a small man in his fifties, wearing a cassock that could have done with a wash. He was very fat, as broad as he was long, his round cheeks covered in grey stubble. He looked at me with watery eyes.

'Reverend Seckford?' I asked.

'Yes,' he answered mildly.

'I wondered if I could speak with you. About a kindness you did many years ago to a woman called Ellen Fettiplace. Wilf Harrydance suggested I call on you.'

He studied me carefully, then nodded. 'Come in, sir.'

I followed him into a shabby parlour. He invited me to sit on a wooden settle covered by a dusty cloth. He took a chair opposite, which creaked under his weight, and looked at me curiously. 'I think you have been travelling, sir.'

'Yes. I apologize for my dusty state.' I took a deep breath, then repeated the story I had told Wilf about a friend looking for Fettiplace relatives. Seckford listened carefully, though his eye occasionally strayed to the open window behind me, and to a large jug on the buffet, where some tarnished silver plate was displayed. When I had finished he stared at me, his face full of sadness.

'Forgive me,' he said quietly, 'but I hope your client's interest is no mere matter of idle curiosity. Ellen's is a sad, terrible story.'

'My—my friend, I am sure he would help her if he could.'

'If she is still alive.' Seckford paused, gathering his thoughts. 'William Fettiplace, Ellen's father, was a good man. He got little profit from that foundry but he was charitable, gave money to the poor and to the church. His wife, Elizabeth, died young. He doted on Ellen. Perhaps he indulged her too much, for she grew into a strong-willed girl. But kind, charitable. She loved the church: she used to bring flowers for the altar, sometimes for me too, to brighten this poor place.' His eyes went blank for a moment, then he continued. 'The fire was nineteen years ago.'

'Wilf said the August of 1526.'

'Yes. Next year came the harvest failure and the great dearth. I buried many parishioners then.' His eyes wandered again to the window. I turned, but there was only a little garden with a cherry tree.

'That day was cold and cloudy, as it had often been that summer. I was here. It was getting dark, I remember I had lit a candle, when there came a frantic hammering at the door. I thought it was someone needing the last rites, but it was poor Ellen that staggered in. Her hood was gone, her hair wild, her dress torn and stained with grass. She must have fallen on her way from the foundry in the dark.'

But, I thought, something else could have happened to explain that.

'I could get no sense from her. Her eyes were staring, she kept taking great whooping breaths but could not speak. Then she said fire, fire at the foundry. I ran and shouted for help and soon half Rolfswood was running there. I stayed with Ellen. They told me after that by the time people got there the whole enclosure was ablaze. All they found of Master Fettiplace and his man Peter Gratwyck was some charred bones. God rest their poor souls.'

'Goodman Harrydance said Ellen moved in here afterwards?'

'Yes.' He raised his chin. 'But there was nothing improper, I got Goodwife Wright, one of the Fettiplace servants, to come and stay.'

'How long did she remain?'

'Near two months. She never recovered from that night. At first she would barely talk at all, and would say nothing about what happened. If we asked her she would start crying or even screaming. It alarmed us. If someone knocked on my door she would jump or even scream and run to her room. After a while she could be got to talk a little of commonplace things, the weather and suchlike, but only to me or Goodwife Wright. And she wouldn't go outside, she would just shake her head wildly if I suggested it. She refused to see anyone else. Not even the young man people had said she would marry, Master Philip West, though he came several times. You could see in his face how troubled he was. I think he loved her.'

'He went to the King's ships, Goodman Harrydance said.'

'Yes, soon after. I think he had a broken heart. You see, the word was Philip West was going to propose to Ellen. His family had obtained a junior position for him at the King's court. He was often in London, but that summer the King had come on Progress to Sussex and Master West had ridden over to visit for the day.' Seckford shook his head sadly. 'Master Fettiplace would have been pleased for them to marry, for the Wests are a wealthy landowning family. And Master West was a handsome young fellow.'

'Are the West family still here?'

'Philip West's father died some years ago. His mother, Mistress Beatrice West, still manages his lands. He owns much round here, but leaves all the management in his mother's hands, only visiting when he is home from sea. She is a—formidable woman. She lives in a big house outside the town. Philip was here last month, when his ship arrived at Portsmouth.' He looked at me. 'I hear all the King's ships are coming there, and the King himself is on his way to review them.' The curate shook his head sorrowfully. 'We live in terrible times.'

'We do, sir.'

'I saw Philip West last month, passing down the main street on his horse. Still a handsome man but middle-aged now, and stern faced.' Seckford stood abruptly. 'Forgive me, sir. I made a resolution to drink no strong beer till the shadow on that cherry tree strikes the gate. But remembering all this—' He stepped to the buffet and took two pewter mugs. 'Will you drink with me, sir?'

'Thank you.'

He filled the mugs from the jug. He drank his straight off in a few gulps, sighed deeply and refilled it, before passing the other to me and lowering himself back into the chair.

'It was after they took Ellen away that I started drinking too much. It seemed so cruel, the foundry burning down, that poor girl with her wits gone. And I have to preach that God is merciful.' His plump face sagged into an expression of great sadness.

'And was Ellen the only witness to what happened?' I asked quietly.

Seckford frowned. 'Yes, and the coroner was very persistent in trying to get the story out of her.' His voice took on a harsh note. 'Mistress West wanted the matter out of the way so her son would not be reminded of it, and it would cease to be the talk of the locality. And the Wests could help Coroner Priddis's advancement. An ambitious man, our former coroner,' he concluded bitterly.

'I know of Priddis,' I said. 'He is now Sir Quintin, feodary of Hampshire. A post of some power.'

'So I have heard. The Priddis family were mere yeomen, but they were ambitious for their son and sent young Quintin to law.' The curate drained his mug. 'Ambition, sir, I believe it a curse. It makes men cold and hard. They should stay in the station God set them.' He sighed. 'Perhaps you will not agree.'

'I agree ambition may lead men into harshness.'

'Priddis was keen to be in with all the gentry. A busy, bustling little fellow. From the day after the fire he kept calling here, demanding to see Ellen and take a statement. But as I told you, she wouldn't see anyone. Master Priddis had to adjourn the inquests on Master Fettiplace and Peter several times. I think it rankled with him, his power thwarted by a mere girl. He had no sympathy for her state of mind.'

'Well, it was his duty to discover what happened.'

'The knave got his statement in the end. I'll tell you how.' Seckford took another mighty quaff of beer. Unlike Wilf he had shown no suspicion of me and it struck me there was something unworldly about him.

'After a few weeks Ellen improved, as I said, but still she would not say what had happened and she would not go out, not even to the church next door. She kept inventing excuses, became—crafty. Ellen Fettiplace, that had been so honest and open before. It saddened me. I think in the end she agreed to see Priddis so he would leave her alone. That was all she wanted now, to stay in this house with me and Jane Wright and never leave.'

'Were you there when he saw her?'

He shook his head. 'Priddis insisted it just be him and Goodwife Wright. They went into my kitchen over there and came out an hour later, Priddis looking pleased with himself. Next day he sent a draft statement to Ellen and she signed it. It said she and her father went to the foundry for a walk that evening, he wanted to check the delivery of some coke, they found Peter drunk and he fell into a fire he had made to warm himself. Peter's clothes caught fire and somehow William Fettiplace's did too. Priddis allowed the statement at the inquest without Ellen attending because of her state of mind. Got a verdict of accidental death.' Seckford slapped his fist angrily on the side of his chair. 'Case closed, tied up in red ribbon and put away.'

'You think Ellen's statement was untrue?'

He looked at me keenly. 'My guess is Master Priddis pieced together the little Ellen had said, worked it up into a likely chain of events and Ellen signed it to be rid of him. As I said, she had become calculating. They say that can happen to folks that are sick in their minds. She wanted only to be left alone.'

'What do you think really happened?'

He looked at me. 'I have no idea. But if the fire had only just started I do not see how Master Fettiplace at least could not have escaped.'

'Did he have any enemies?'

'None. No one wished him ill.'

'How did Ellen come to leave you?'

The curate leaned back in his chair. 'Oh sir, you ask me to remember the worst part of all.'

'I am sorry. I did not mean to press.'

'No, you should hear it to the end now.' Seckford got up, took my mug, waddled to the buffet and poured more beer.

'Goodwife Wright and I did not know what to do about Ellen. She had no relatives, she was heiress to her father's house here in Rolfswood, a little land, and the burnt-out foundry. I thought to keep her with us in the hope that eventually she might recover and be able to deal with her affairs. But Quintin Priddis took a hand again. Not long after the verdict he was back. Sat where you sit now and said it was improper for Ellen to remain here. He threatened to tell my vicar, and I knew he would order her put out.' Seckford drained his mug again.

I leaned forward. 'Goodman Harrydance said she was taken to London, to relatives.'

I saw the hand holding the empty mug was trembling. 'I asked Master Priddis what was to become of her. He said he had made enquiries and found relatives in London, and that he was willing to arrange for her to be taken to them.' He frowned and now he did look at me sharply. 'You say this friend of yours lives there, but does not know her.'

'He knows nothing of this.' I hated lying to the old man, and realized how once started on a course of lies it becomes ever harder to stop. But Seckford seemed to accept my reply.

He said, 'My guess is Mistress West asked Priddis to search for relatives, gave him some fee. There would have to have been some profit in it for him to act.'

I thought, but for whoever placed her in the Bedlam there has been no profit, only continual expense. Keeping her out of the way could only be for their safety. Was it Mistress West, protecting her son?

'Priddis played a dirty trick.' Seckford spoke quietly. 'Jane Wright, you see, had had no wages since the fire. Nor had the other servants in Master Fettiplace's house. Who was to pay them? Priddis told her that placing Ellen with these relatives meant that things could be put on a proper footing, Master Fettiplace's house sold and her arrears of wages paid. He said he would put in a word with whoever bought the house, see if they would keep her on. That brought her over to his side. I cannot blame her, she had no income, we were all living out of my poor stipend.'

'Did you ask who these relatives were?' I asked gently.

'Priddis would not say. Only that they lived in London and would take care of her. He said that was all I needed to know.' Seckford leaned forward. 'Sir, I am only a poor curate. How was I to stand up to Priddis, a man of authority and power with a stone for a heart?'

'You were in an impossible position.'

'Yet I could have done more. I have always been weak.' He bowed his head. 'A week later a coach arrived, one of those boxes on wheels that rich people use. Priddis had told me people were coming to take Ellen to London. He said the best thing was not to tell her anything, otherwise she might become wild. Jane Wright persuaded me that was the kindest thing to do. Ah, I am too easily led.

'Priddis came early one morning with two men, big ugly ruffians. They marched into Ellen's room and hauled her out. She was screaming, like a poor animal caught in a trap. I told her it was for the best, she was going to kind relatives, but she was beyond listening. Such a look she gave me, she thought I had betrayed her. As I had. She was still screaming as the coach drove away. I hear her still.'

As I do, I thought, but did not dare to say. Seckford rose unsteadily to his feet. 'Another drink, sir? I know I need one.'

'No, thank you.' I stood as well. Seckford looked at me, something desperate in his eyes. 'Drink with me, sir,' he said. 'It eases the mind. Come.'

'I have travelled far, sir,' I answered gently. 'I am very tired, I must rest. But thank you for telling me the story. I see it was hard for you. I would not have liked to be in your place.'

'Will your client try to find Ellen?'

'I promise something will be done.'

He nodded, his face twisting with emotion as he went and poured another mug for himself.

'One last question, if I may. What happened to the Fettiplace house?'

'It was sold, as Priddis said it would be. To Master Humphrey Buttress, that owns the corn mill. He is still there.' The curate smiled mirthlessly. 'An old associate of Master Priddis—I'll warrant it was sold cheap. Master Buttress brought his own servants, and Jane Wright and the other Fettiplace servants were all out on the street. She died the next year, during the great dearth, she starved, and she was not the only one. She was old, you see, and had no work.' Seckford steadied himself on the buffet with one hand. 'I pray your friend will find Ellen in London and help her, if she still lives. But I beg you, do not repeat what I have said about Priddis, or the Wests, or Master Buttress, to anyone in authority. It could still bring me trouble. My vicar wants me out, you see, he is a radical reformer while I—I find the new ways difficult.'

'I promise.' I shook his trembling hand and left him.

MY CONSCIENCE troubled me as I walked back down the lane towards the town. I wished I could have told him Ellen was alive, that she had had at least some semblance of a life before I brought fresh trouble to it. I believed there had been a rape on that long-ago night, as well as the fire. I remembered Ellen's words—They were so strong! I could not move! The sky above—it was so wide—so wide it could swallow me! And Ellen's dress had been torn and had grass on it. But who were the men who had done it?

Thinking hard, I was paying little attention to my surroundings. The lane ran between hawthorn hedges, and suddenly two men stepped from a gap and stood in front of me. They were in their thirties, labourers by the look of them. They looked vaguely familiar. One gave a little bow. 'Evening, master,' he said.

'Good evening, fellows.'

'I hear you've been cozening old tales out of our father.' Now I recognized the resemblance to Wilf in their thin sharp faces.

'I was asking about the fire at the Fettiplace foundry, yes.' I looked round. We were quite alone in the shady lane. I heartily wished Barak were with me.

'Been talking to old John Seckford too, have you?'

'Yes. Your father suggested it.'

'Father is an old gabblemouth. He's been full of theories about that fire for years, saying the verdict didn't make sense, something was kept quiet. We tell him it's all long past and he shouldn't be making trouble. The Wests are powerful people, they own the land we farm. Father doesn't know anything, he wasn't there. We thought we'd tell you, sir.' His tone was quiet, even respectful, but threatening nonetheless.

'Father said you were leaving Rolfswood tomorrow,' his brother added. 'Our advice is not to come back, and certainly not to talk to our father again.' He leaned forward. 'Or you might be found with your head broken. Not that we ever told you that, or even spoke to you at all.' He nodded at me significantly, then the two turned and disappeared again through the gap in the hedge. I took a long, deep breath, then resumed my way.

I SPENT a troubled night at the inn. What had happened here nineteen years ago? Theories chased each other round my tired mind as I lay in bed. Could Peter Gratwyck have been one of the rapists? Had he and Philip West attacked Ellen and her father, then set fire to the foundry to dispose of the body? Had Gratwyck then run away? I shook my head. There was no evidence to support that theory, nor any other. But I wondered all the more whether murder had been done that night.

Priddis's involvement had been a shock. In two days I was to meet him in Portsmouth. And Philip West was probably there too. That was no surprise, for all the prominent officials of the region, and the army and the King's ships, were gathering in Portsmouth now. The King himself would be there in a week.

Tomorrow I would return to Hoyland Priory and its strange family. I realized I had scarcely thought about them since I arrived here. I tossed and turned, remembering how Seckford had described Ellen: like a poor animal caught in a trap.

NEXT MORNING I rose early. There was one more thing I could do before I left.

I left the inn and walked up the main street. I soon found the house Goodwife Bell had mentioned. It was the largest, new-painted in blue, with diamond-paned windows and a doorway framed by posts beautifully carved with animal figures. I knocked at the door. A servant answered, and I asked if I could speak to Master Buttress regarding the Fettiplace family. That should bring him, I thought.

I was asked to wait in the parlour. It was a well-appointed room, dominated by a wall painting of Roman officials in togas, arguing outside the Senate. A large vase of summer flowers stood on a table. I looked at them, remembering what Seckford had said about Ellen bringing flowers to him. This was the house where she had been brought up, lived all her life until the tragedy. I looked around it, my senses heightened, but felt nothing, no connection.

The door opened and a tall, burly man with curly iron-grey hair entered, wearing a wool doublet with silver buttons over a shirt embroidered with fine lacework. He bowed.

'Master Buttress?' I asked.

'I am. I am told you have an enquiry about the Fettiplace family, who once lived here.' His manner was civil, but there was something both watchful and aggressive about him.

'I am sorry to trouble you so early, but I wonder if you could help me.' I told him my story about making enquiries for a friend.

'Who told you I owned the house?'

'I heard it at the inn.'

Buttress grunted. 'This town is full of gossip. I only knew the family slightly.'

'I understand. But I have been thinking. Mistress Fettiplace would have had to put her London address on the deed of conveyance when she sold the house. That might help me trace her. Unless,' I added, 'her sanity was an issue, in which case the conveyance would have gone through the Office of Wards, as it was then.'

Buttress looked at me narrowly. 'As I recall, she sold it herself. It was all done properly, she was past sixteen, of an age to sell.'

'I have no doubt it was, sir. But if you could be so kind as to find the conveyance, it would be a great help if I could find an address.' I spoke deferentially, reckoning that was the best approach with this man. He frowned again, then drew himself up to his full height. 'Wait,' he said, 'I will see if I can find it.'

Buttress left, returning a few minutes later with a document with a red seal at the bottom. He brushed the dust off with a sweeping motion and laid it on the table. 'There, sir,' he said stiffly. 'You will see everything is in order.' I studied the conveyance. It sold the house, and the freehold of some woodland, to Humphrey Buttress on the fifteenth of December 1526. Two months after Ellen had been taken away. I did not know the price of land round here then, but it was less than I would have expected. The address was care of a solicitor, Henry Fowberry of Warwick Lane, off Newgate. The signature above it, Ellen Fettiplace in a round childish hand, was nothing at all like her signature I had seen at the Bedlam. It was a forgery.

I looked up at Buttress. He smiled urbanely. 'Perhaps this solicitor is still in practice,' he said. 'You may be able to find him.'

I doubted that. 'Thank you,' I said.

'If not, your friend may be best advised to drop his search.'

'Perhaps.'

'Have you heard?' Buttress said. 'The King has just ordered the second instalment of the Benevolence to be paid now instead of at Michaelmas. Every man of means has to pay fourpence in the pound on the value of his assets.'

'I had not heard.'

'To pay the men and supplies for this great levy en masse. You will have seen much activity on the roads if you have come from London.'

'Yes, indeed.'

'If you are going to be away any length of time you should arrange to pay your assessment in London, or they will be after you.'

'My business near Portsmouth should only keep me a few days.'

'And then you will be returning home?' His hard eyes were fixed on mine.

'That is my plan.'

Buttress seemed to relax. 'I am a magistrate,' he said proudly. 'I have to help collect the payments locally. Well, we have to stop the French from landing, Pope's shavelings that they are. The price of grain is high, so I should not complain.'

'You are lucky if you have more coming in than going out this year.'

He smiled tightly. 'Wars need supplies. Well, I would offer you some breakfast. Better than you will get at that inn—'

'Thank you,' I answered. I wanted to learn more about this man.

'—but unfortunately I must leave. There is much to do at the mill. I am a man short, one of my workers was gored to death by a bull last week.'

'How sad.'

'The fool forgot to shut a gate and it went after him.' He smiled thinly. 'Bulls, fires, these rural parts can be dangerous places.'

I BREAKFASTED at the inn. I received sour glances from the old woman who had introduced me to Wilf, and wondered if she had become suspicious of my close questioning of him and told his sons. I fetched Oddleg from the stables and rode out of Rolfswood, which was stirring into life on another fine summer's morning. I patted the horse. 'Back to Hampshire, good beast,' I said, settling myself in the saddle. And soon, I thought, to Portsmouth.

Chapter Twenty-three

BY THE TIME I rode once more through the gate of Hoyland Priory it was around four o'clock, the shadows lengthening. All was peaceful. A gardener was working on Abigail's flower beds. Insects buzzed and a woodpecker tapped somewhere in the woods. Two peacocks strutted across the lawn, watched by Lamkin as he sprawled under a tree. I rode round the side of the house, Oddleg quickening his pace at the prospect of returning to the stables.

I gave the ostler instructions to ensure the horse was properly washed down and combed. He was surly and uncommunicative like all the Hobbey servants. As I left the stables, a door in the rear wall of the enclosure opened and the huntsman Avery entered. He wore a green jerkin, green scoggers on his legs and even a green cap above his thin, deeply tanned features. He bowed. I walked across to him.

'Only—what—four days till your hunt?' I asked.

'It is.' Barking sounded from the kennels; the dogs had heard his footsteps. He smiled tiredly. 'Feeding time. They always hear me.'

'You must be busy now.'

'Ay. The dogs cause much labour—feeding them, keeping them clean, walking them twice a day. And more work in the park, making ready for the hunt. Master Hobbey wants everything just right.'

'So some in the village will work for him.' Avery smiled wryly and shrugged.

'How big is the park?' I asked.

'Around a mile each way. It was a deer park under the nuns, I believe. They used to lease it out to local gentry. But it has been allowed to deteriorate these last few years.'

'I wonder why Master Hobbey did not use it before now.'

'Well, sir, that is really his business.' A cautious note entered Avery's voice. Yes, I thought, he has been warned against me by the family.

'You are right, I apologize. But tell me, what will happen on the day of the hunt?'

'The guests and members of the family will take places along a prearranged route and the stag will be driven towards them. I saw the stag again yesterday. A magnificent beast.'

'And whoever brings it down will be entitled to the heartstone?'

'That's right.'

'Might it be Master Hugh again, I wonder?'

'It might be him, or one of the guests. I do not know how good shots they are. Or Master David, he is a fine shot, though he cannot seem to learn that you must keep quiet and hidden when you are tracking.'

'Is that why you are wearing green? To blend in with the wood?'

'It is. All the hunters will wear green or brown.'

'Do you travel the country organizing hunts, Master Avery?'

'I do now. I was in charge of a monastery hunting park until eight years ago. Then it was put down, the land sold off in parcels.'

'Which house?'

'Lewes Priory, over in Sussex.'

'Really? Lewes? The engineers who demolished Lewes for Lord Cromwell also took down a monastic house I had—connections with—just afterwards.'

Avery shook his head sadly. 'I watched Lewes come down in a great roar and cloud of dust. A terrible sight. Did you see this other place come down?'

'No. I did not wait for that.' I sighed, remembering.

Avery hesitated, then said, 'I will be glad to leave this place after the hunt. All the bad feeling with the village, the family hissing round each other like snakes. You are here to look out for Master Hugh's welfare?'

'Yes. Yes, I am.'

'He is the best of them. A fine lad.' Perhaps thinking he had said too much, Avery bowed quickly and walked away to his dogs.

I WALKED thoughtfully past the outhouses to Barak's room.

'Master Shardlake.' I turned at a sudden voice behind me. Fulstowe had just emerged from the laundry building.

'You startled me, master steward.'

He gave his deferential smile. 'I am sorry. I saw you through the open doorway. You have just returned?'

'Yes.'

'Is there anything you need?'

'Only a wash and a rest.'

'I will arrange for hot water to be sent to your room. Some more letters have arrived for you, Barak has them.'

'Thank you. Is everyone in the house well?'

'Yes. We have had a quiet time.' Fulstowe's eyes quested over my face. 'Was your business in Sussex successful, sir?'

'It was—complicated.'

'We shall be leaving for Portsmouth early tomorrow, if that is convenient.'

'You are coming with us?'

'Yes. Master Hugh and Master David too. They are determined to see the fleet.' He smiled. 'Boys will be boys.'

'Near grown men now.'

He stroked his neat blond beard. 'Yes, indeed.'

'And now I will have a word with my clerk before I go in, see my letters.'

Fulstowe looked along the row of outhouses. 'I believe Barak is in his room.'

I smiled. 'You seem to know everyone's movements, master steward.'

'That is my job, sir.' He bowed and left me.

I KNOCKED on Barak's door. He answered at once. 'Good, you're back.'

I looked at him curiously. 'Why are you skulking indoors on a fine afternoon?'

'I'm tired of that arsehole steward and his minions watching my every move. Jesu, you're dusty.'

'Let me sit down.' I sat on the straw bed. Two letters addressed to me lay there, one from Warner and one from Guy. 'Any news of Tamasin?'

'She wrote again the day we arrived.' He leaned against the door and pulled a letter from his shirt. 'Guy says she still comes along well. She is still determined the child is a girl. I miss her.'

'I know. Next week we shall be home.'

'I pray we are.'

'How have the Hobbeys been?'

'I haven't seen Hobbey or Abigail. They let me take my meals in the kitchen, apart from that they don't let me in the house. The boys were practising archery again this morning. Feaveryear and I joined them. Then Dyrick came out and shooed us off, said he needed Feaveryear and we should not be mixing with the young gentlemen.' He frowned. 'I wanted to put my boot up his arse and kick him all the way back to the house.'

'I would like to myself. But he would like me to lose control.'

'I felt sorry for little Feaveryear. He could no more make an archer than that dog Lamkin could. David mocks him, but Hugh was patient. I think he welcomes someone to talk to apart from David.'

'Feaveryear doesn't look as if he's had much patience from anyone before.'

'I have some news from Hoyland village.'

'Tell me.'

'I went there yesterday evening, sneaked out the back gate. They have a tavern there, and I asked for Master Ettis. Someone fetched him, we had a drink, then I went to his house. It's the best in the village. He leads the faction that wants to fight for their commons. I told him you work for Requests.'

'Will he keep it quiet?'

'Yes. I helped him draft a letter to the court. I said when we return to London you may take the case. If he would help us with information.'

'How did he react?'

'Said he'd cut my throat if I played him false. It was bluff: he told me after they have a spy in the house, who confirmed we were here about Hugh.'

I was about to open Warner's letter, but now I sat up. 'Who?'

He smiled. 'Old Ursula that worked for the nuns. They're furious angry, Ettis's people. Apparently Hobbey has not only been threatening to take half their woodlands under his interpretation of that old charter, but he's also trying to buy people out. Fulstowe has been offering a good price for the poorer cottagers' smallholdings if they'll go. And some of them have been given work helping set up this hunt.'

'Divide and rule. What is the mood among the rest of the Hoyland people? Would they take it to court?'

'I think so. Most are behind Ettis. They know that if the commons go down the village will die. Hobbey made a mistake by threatening to put his woodcutters on the villagers' woods, Ettis said. He's brought things to a head. Ettis thinks that was Hobbey's decision, by the way. Fulstowe has a more crafty approach. Ettis says he is the brains behind what's going on.'

'Interesting. What did Ettis say about the Hobbey family?'

'Nothing new there. David's a spoilt fool. Hobbey brings him riding through the village sometimes, and David raises a stink if some stiff-jointed old villager doesn't pull his cap off in time. Hugh they never see, nor Abigail. Ettis said Hugh goes walking in the lanes on his own sometimes, but he turns his head away and hurries past with a mumble if he meets a villager.'

'He is too conscious of his face, I think.'

'Some of the village women say Abigail is a witch, and Lamkin her familiar. Even the servants at the house are frightened of Abigail, they never know when she's going to start screaming and shouting at them. And apparently it's not true the local gentry shunned Hobbey because he bought the priory. It's rather that the family have isolated themselves. They never go anywhere, except for Hobbey making the occasional trip to Portsmouth or London.'

I frowned. 'What is it Abigail is frightened of?'

'I asked Ettis that. He had no idea. I told him too about that arrow shot at us in the forest. He was pretty sure we disturbed a poacher who wanted to warn us off.'

'That's a relief.'

'And I spoke to Ursula. I told her I was in with Ettis, and persuaded her to talk to me. She hates the Hobbeys. Said Master Hobbey told her off about leaving those flowers in the graveyard. Consecrated ground that's been left to rot, she called it. She said Abigail has always been high strung, with a sharp temper, but recently she seems to have withdrawn into herself.' He raised his eyebrows. 'Ever since she heard you were coming.'

'What did she say about the boys?'

'Just that David is a little beast. I got the impression she might know something more, but she wouldn't be drawn. She said Hugh is well mannered, but too quiet for a boy his age. She doesn't like any of them. I asked her if she saw anything the day Michael Calfhill came.'

'Did she?'

'Afraid not. That day she was working on the other side of the house.'

'Damn it.'

'This place is as full of watchers and factions as the King's court.'

'Yes,' I agreed. 'I spoke to Avery on my way in, he said much the same. He used to work at Lewes Priory. Cromwell had it demolished by the same people who demolished Scarnsea, where he sent me after his commissioner was murdered. And do you remember, during the Dark Fire business, that Wentworth household? Another family full of factions and secrets.' I sighed. 'Strange. I had one of my dreams of drowning last night; they always remind me of what happened in York, and the nightmare of the Revelation murders. Strange how the past revisits you.'

'I've always tried not to let it.' Barak looked at me keenly. 'What happened in Rolfswood? Something did, I can tell.'

I met his gaze. He looked tired, from the strain of living in this place combined with anxiety over Tamasin. I was tired too; tired of lies. I needed, self-indulgently perhaps, to tell someone about Rolfswood. So I told him about the fire, and all I had learned from Wilf, Seckford, and Buttress, as well as the threat from Wilf's sons.

'People are still scared of loose tongues nineteen years later,' he mused. 'What do you think happened?'

'Rape.' I looked at him. 'Perhaps murder. And tomorrow we go to Portsmouth and meet Priddis, who conducted the inquest. I don't think I should mention Rolfswood.'

'You think he may be linked to people who might endanger Ellen?'

'Yes. And Philip West is in Portsmouth too. I asked Guy to visit Ellen, and paid Hob Gebons to look after her, but still I fear for her. It is a nightmare tangle. If murder was involved, Ellen's safety has been only provisional for nineteen years. What if she has another outburst and lets out more of what happened? Whoever is paying her fees may decide she is safer out of the way. And if they can afford Bedlam fees and coaches, perhaps they can afford to find a hired killer too.'

'You shouldn't have started this, in my opinion.'

'Well, I did,' I snapped. 'I only learned about the fire and the deaths on the way here.' I grimaced. 'I swore to myself not to involve you. I am sorry.'

'For what? You're not going back there, are you?'

'I don't know.'

'I think the damage is done now, anyway,' he said bluntly. 'If this Buttress was involved in what happened I imagine he'd soon tell these West people someone was making enquiries.'

'Yes. I thought about it all through the ride home. I charged ahead without thinking, I was so keen to get information. I hadn't expected to find that conveyance was forged.' I hesitated. 'I have been wondering whether to try and seek out this Philip West in Portsmouth.'

'Having come this far perhaps you should. Leacon may know where we can find him. But be careful what you say to him.'

'Yes.' I realized that our roles had become reversed, Barak was the one advising me what to do, not to be impulsive. But he did not have my driving need to discover all I could about Ellen, to rescue her somehow. Through guilt for the damage I had done to her, through being unable to return her love.

I sighed, and opened my letters. The first was from Guy. It was dated 6 July, three days before, and would have crossed with the one I sent.

I put the letter down with a sigh. I was greatly relieved Ellen was improved, but her bitterness towards me cut deeply. She was right, it was my clumsiness that had done it. I cut the seal on Warner's letter. To my surprise he had already received mine.

I laid the letter in my lap and looked at Barak. 'Mylling is dead. Found locked in the Stinkroom. He suffocated.' I passed the letter to him.

'So Hobbey was in debt,' he said when he had read it.

'Yes. But Mylling—he would never have gone into the Stinkroom without leaving that stone to prevent the door closing. He feared the place, it set him wheezing.'

'Are you saying someone shut him in? They'd have had to know he had a weak chest.'

'I can't see him taking any risks with that door.'

'You're not suggesting some agent of Priddis or Hobbey had him killed, are you? And why would they? You'd seen all the papers already.'

'Unless there was something else Mylling knew. And remember Michael Calfhill? He is the second person connected with this case to die suddenly.'

'You were sure Michael's death was suicide.' Barak's voice rose impatiently. 'God's nails, if Hobbey has been defrauding Hugh over the sale of wood, it can't be worth more than a hundred or so a year at most. Not enough to be killing people for, surely, and risking the rope—'

We were interrupted by a knock at the door. Barak threw it open. A young man, one of the Hobbey servants, stood outside. 'Sir,' he said, 'Master Hobbey and Mistress Abigail are taking a glass of wine outside before dinner with Master Dyrick. They ask if you would join them.'

I WENT TO my room, where I washed my face and neck in the bowl of water Fulstowe had sent up, then changed into fresh clothes and went outside. Chairs had been set out beside the porch, and Hobbey, Abigail and Dyrick sat there, a large flagon of wine on a table between them. Fulstowe had just brought out a plate of sweetmeats. Hobbey rose and smiled.

'Well, Master Shardlake.' His manner was at its smoothest. 'You have had a long ride. Come, enjoy a glass of wine and the peace of this beautiful afternoon. You too, Fulstowe, take a rest from your labours and join us.'

Fulstowe bowed. 'Thank you, sir. Some wine, Master Shardlake?' He passed me a cup and we both sat. Abigail gave me one of her sharp, hostile glances and looked away. Dyrick nodded coldly.

Hobbey looked out over his property, his face thoughtful. The shadows were lengthening over the garden. Lamkin was dozing under his tree. In an oak tree nearby a wood pigeon began cooing. Hobbey smiled. 'There,' he said, pointing. 'Two of them, high up, see?'

I looked to where two of the fat grey birds sat on a branch. 'A far different scene from the stinks of London,' Dyrick observed.

'Yes,' Hobbey answered. 'How many days in my office there, looking out at the rubbish on the Thames bank at low tide, did I dream of living somewhere like this. Peaceful, quiet.' He shook his head. 'Strange to think they are preparing for war so near.' He sighed. 'And we will see those preparations tomorrow at Portsmouth. All I have ever aimed for is a peaceful life for me and mine.' He looked at me, real sadness in his face. 'I wish Hugh and my son were not so keen on war.'

'There I agree with you, sir,' I said. I was seeing another side of Hobbey. He was greedy, snobbish, probably corrupt, but he was also devoted to his family and what he had hoped would be a quiet country life. And surely he was not a man to arrange two murders.

'Vincent too had a letter today.' Hobbey turned to Dyrick. 'What news of your wife and children?'

'My wife says my daughters are fractious and miss me.' Dyrick gave me a hard look. 'Fine as your house is, sir, for myself I would fain be back home.'

'Well, hopefully you soon will be.'

'When Master Shardlake allows,' Abigail said with quiet bitterness.

'Come, my dear,' Hobbey said soothingly. She did not reply, only looked down and took a small sip of wine.

'How went your work in Sussex, Brother Shardlake?' Dyrick asked. 'Fulstowe said there were complications.' He smiled, demonstrating he was within the household's network of information.

'It is more complex than I expected. But so many matters turn out that way.' I returned his gaze. 'To have unexpected layers.'

'Some tenant dragging an unfortunate landlord to Requests?'

'Now, Brother,' I answered chidingly. 'I may say nothing. Professional confidentiality.'

'Of course. Why, this poor landlord may come to me for advice.'

'Master Shardlake,' Hobbey asked. 'Do you think you will have completed your business before our hunt?'

'I am not sure. I must see what Priddis has to say.'

Dyrick's face darkened. 'Man, we are surely done. You are dragging this out—'

Hobbey raised a hand. 'No arguments, gentlemen, please. Look, the boys have returned.'

Hugh and David had appeared in the gateway, their big greyhounds on their leashes. David carried a bag of game over his shoulder.

Abigail spoke sharply. 'Those hounds. I've told them to take them in by the back gate—'

Then it happened so quickly that none of us had time to do more than stare in horror. Both hounds turned their long heads towards Lamkin. The little dog got to his feet. Then his greyhound's leash was out of David's hand, flying out behind the big dog as it ran straight at Lamkin with huge, loping strides. Hugh's hound pulled forward, jerking the leash from his hand too. Lamkin fled from the dogs, running towards the flower garden with unexpected speed, but few animals on earth could have outrun those greyhounds. David's hound caught the little spaniel just inside the flower garden, lowering its head then lifting it with Lamkin in its mouth. I saw little white legs struggling, then the greyhound closed its jaws and the spaniel's body jerked, blood spurting. The greyhound loped back to David and dropped Lamkin, a limp pile of blood and fur, at its master's feet. Abigail stood, hands clawing at her cheeks. A terrible sound came from her, less a scream than a wild keening howl.

David and Hugh stared down at the bloody mess on the ground, which the dogs had started to pull apart. David looked shocked. But I had seen the tiny flicker of a smile as he let go the leash. Hugh's face was composed, expressionless. I thought, was this something they both planned, or only David?

Abigail's grief-stricken wail stopped abruptly. She clenched her fists and marched across the lawn, the hem of her dress making a hissing sound on the grass. David stepped back as Abigail raised her fists and began pummelling at his head. She screamed, 'Evil, wicked brute! Monster! Why do you torment me? You are no normal creature!'

David lifted his arms to protect his face. Hugh stepped forward and tried to pull Abigail away, but she slapped his arm down. 'Get away!' she screamed. 'You are as unnatural a creature as he!'

'Abigail!' Hobbey shouted. 'Stop, in heaven's name! It was an accident!' He was trembling. I exchanged a glance with Dyrick. For once we were in the same position, not knowing whether to intervene.

Abigail turned to us. I have seldom seen such anger and despair in a human face. 'You fool, Nicholas!' she yelled. 'He let go the leash, the evil thing! I have had enough, enough of all of you! You will blame me no more!'

Fulstowe walked quickly towards Abigail and took her by the arm. She turned and smacked him hard on the cheek. 'Get off me, you! Servant! Knave!'

Hobbey had followed the steward. He seized Abigail's other arm. 'Quiet, wife, in God's name quiet yourself!'

'Let go!' Abigail struggled fiercely. Her hood fell off, long grey-blonde hair cascading round her shoulders. David had backed against a tree. He put his head in his hands and began to cry like a child.

Suddenly Abigail sagged between Nicholas and Fulstowe. They let her go. She raised a flushed, tear-stained face and looked straight at me. 'You fool!' she shouted. 'You do not see what is right in front of you!' Her voice was cracking now. She looked at Fulstowe and her husband, then at Hugh and the weeping David. 'God give you all sorrow and shame!' she cried, then turned her back on them and ran past Dyrick and me into the house. There were servants' faces at every window. Hobbey went to David. The boy collapsed in his arms. 'Father,' I heard David say in an agonized voice.

Hugh looked expressionlessly at the greyhounds, their long muzzles red as they growled over a scrap of bloody fur.